LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap^iL/i? Copyright No ;.. 

Shelf^4tJ g ' 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Woods and J)ales of J)erbgshjre 



BY THE 



REV. JAMES S. STONE, D.D. 



" O for a seat in some poetic nook, 
Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook ! " 



PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. 
J898 






J* aft 



62688 



TWO COPIES HECE1VEJ3, 

L ibr&ry of Congret* 
Offieo of tb« 

MM 1 « 1900 

K.ijUUr of CopjrtgHfc 
stc jno copy. 



preface. 



^~\nce in May, and again in August, in the year 1892, it fell to my lotto 
wander through some of the woods, valleys and towns of Derbyshire. 
The pleasure I felt and the knowledge I gained on these occasions I have 
sought to suggest in the following pages ; and, as with former books written 
by me updn similar subjects, this book is given to my reader, not so much as 
a history, or a survey, or even as a guide, but chiefly to help him pleasantly to 
while away a few minutes now and again, in exciting memory to recall, 
or imagination to picture, the people, places, manners and traditions of an 
old-world region. I am well aware of difficulties and defects in my work. 
I have wandered, as some of the brooks in Derbyshire wander, here, there and 
almost everywhere. Perhaps not a few will think me as dry, desultory and 
wearisome as are the highlands of that same county ; if so, I hope such readers 
will look again into other passages of my book which I have striven to make 
pleasant and merry as are green and well-watered glens cleft in the wide, waste 
moorland. No author knows into whose hands his work may come : my hope 
is that this volume may be read only by generous and genial folk, — good- 
natured, happy-hearted friends, who love gossip at least as much as they care 
for precision of style, clarity of thought or conciseness of argument. I could 
tell them what creature-comforts would help them both to enjoy my book, and 
also to take from them the inclination to use rules of criticism — the justice of 
which rules I should be the first to admit, but the application of which I should 
be the last to like ; only, if the}' do not know such for themselves, there is no 
hope that they will take kindly to anything I may write. By far the greater part 
of the book was written in Europe, much of it at the time and at the places men- 
tioned. It is still in its rough freshness, — without study, without elaboration, 
without polish, — almost exactly as first composed. When I read again the pencil- 
2 (5) 



6 PREFACE. 

written sheets, before sending them to the printer, I came to the conclusion that if 
I began to revise I should probably take out the very spirit I wished to retain, — 
perhaps the truth as well as the rudeness, and the humor as well as the 
inequalities. So like " Over the Hills to Broadway " and ' ' From Frankfort to 
Munich," the reader has the book, if not finely finished, yet, I fondly hope, 
warm and living as from my very heart. 

Further than this, it is well for me to say that I used the most scrupulous 
care to make the book true both to life and to fact. All diligence was taken 
not to give even a coloring or an idea that was not both fair and faithful, as 
much for niy own satisfaction as for my reader's comfort. It is not of course 
implied that my taste or my judgment is always correct. I may have erred, even 
in allowing first impressions to remain untouched ; but of this others, and not 
I, must decide. 

Many are the books which have been written on Derbj^shire and' its towns 
since Domesday, Rotuli Hundredorum, and Camden's Britannia were set forth. 
Hutton, Simpson, Davies, Glover and Noble wrote long ago of the history and 
antiquities of the county ; and also, though more briefly, did Daniel and 
Samuel Lysons in their Magna Britannia, and Grose in his Antiquities. " The 
History and Topography of Ashbourn " was published at Ashbourne in 1839, and 
is a careful and exhaustive octavo of 380 pages, containing many original wood- 
cuts and drawings on stone. E. Rhodes's " Peak Scenery," published in 1824, 
abounds in pleasant descriptions of journe3'S taken at various times through 
different parts of the shire. Of modern books there are none better than Mr. 
John Leyland's "Peak of Derbyshire," and Mr. Edward Bradbury's "All 
About Derbyshire." The last-named volume, with Mr. M. J. B. Baddeley's 
' ' Peak District, ' ' I found most helpful and thoroughly accurate. Nor is there a 
better written book on the county than Mr. John Pendleton's Popular History 
of Derbyshire. Among less pretentious works may be mentioned, Mr. William 
Smith's "Derbyshire : its Ballads, Poesy, Humourists and Scenery " — a bright 
and spicy pamphlet, originally read before the Sheffield Literary and Philosoph- 
ical Society ; the Rev. Francis Jourdain's " Guide to Ashbourne Parish Church " 
— admirably gotten up and illustrated ; Mr. T. Thornley's edition of the Rev. 
John Hamilton Gray's " Bolsover Castle" — without which I should have been 
unable to say much of that famous stronghold ; Mr. A. E. Cokayne's " Day in 
the Peak," and " Bakewell and its Vicinity " — two books which are deservedly 



PREFACE. 7 

read by most visitors to Derbyshire ; "The Complete Guide to Dovedale," 
published by Mr. Edward Bamford, of Ashbourne, and Mr. George Moores' 
" Guide to the North Staffordshire Railway" — both of which are of highest 
worth. Every one of the books named, besides several upon Haddon Hall and 
Chatsworth, I looked into more or less carefully, either when in Derbyshire, or 
while preparing the following pages, or as the book was going through the 
press. In the Derbyshire Advertiser — one of the oldest and most trustworthy 
of provincial journals — I have found, from time to time, many interesting 
sketches of Derbyshire places and customs. From these authorities I gathered 
some facts, but I used them more as checks upon my own work than as sources 
of suggestion : my purpose being to convey to my reader, not so much the 
information they give, as my own impressions and the results of my own 
observation. 

But of much greater help to me than these, were my old and good 
friends, Mr. John Lucas, Mr. William H. Lucas and Mr. William Waterall, three 
natives of Derbyshire, now and for long resident in Philadelphia. Loving 
and remembering the land and the scenes of their youth, and continuing 
through many years in close touch with their former acquaintances and sur- 
roundings, they were able both to stir up my own sympathies, and also to give 
me much counsel and not a little knowledge. Some of my stories came from 
them ; and were I to acknowledge my indebtedness to them particularly, I 
should say that Mr. John Lucas helped me with some recollections of Ash- 
bourne ; Mr. William H. Lucas, b}' lending me two or three of the books above 
mentioned, and Mr. William Waterall, with much of the local coloring of Bols- 
over, and especially by allowing me to have copied from a water-color in his 
possession, the picture of the " Swan " in that village. 

My thanks are also due to my dear friend, Mrs. S. M. Elliot, of Philadel- 
phia, by whose generosity this volume was made possible, and who, with Mr. 
and Mrs. George L. Knowles, of the same city, went with me through much of 
the Derbyshire country. They drew my attention to many things which other- 
wise would have escaped me, and for the interest they took in the gathering ol 
my notes, and the shaping of the same into their present form, I am very grate- 
ful. It is only fair that I should add that my wife, who accompanied me 
throughout the whole journey, read my pages and made many helpful sug- 
gestions. 



S PREFACE. 

All the illustrations were prepared for this work by the Electro-Tint 
Engraving Company of Philadelphia, and I have no doubt that my reader will 
agree with me in recognizing the great merits of the workmanship. The sub- 
jects were, with a few exceptions, brought by me from Derbyshire. Among 
these exceptions were some photographs which I secured of Mr. William H. 
Rau, of Philadelphia, and the photograph of a painting of the Resurrec- 
tion, which Mrs. Elliot kindly brought me from Norway. 

In the Appendix I have given some of the Songs and Ballads popular in 
Derbyshire, and these, I hope, will be appreciated by my reader, if not for their 
own merits, yet because illustrating the life and habits of the people. 

I ought not, perhaps, to try the patience of my reader, or to break the rule 
that a preface should be as brief as possible, but there is a feature of this book, 
and of other books of mine, of which I should like to say something. It is not 
unlikely that they who follow me through these next paragraphs may be all 
the better able to enjoy my book : such readers will consider these same pas- 
sages rather as a prelude to the book than as part of the preface thereof. 

I have never doubted but that they who took the trouble to read these 
pages would love the subjects of which they treat. Nobody else would be 
likely to buy the book. There is nothing inconsistent in an American loving 
well his own country, and also loving well the lands from which he or his 
fathers came. The more he knows of historj^ and of literature the fonder will 
his heart go out, not only to the regions beyond the Alps, or beside the Rhine, 
but especially to the countries where his own mother- tongue is spoken, and the 
books and the men he admires are known and cherished. Both he and they 
who in good faith and with true affection have crossed the seas to make America 
their home, will know the power of reminiscence and the charm of suggestion. 
The thought of Britain will not make them less loyal to their own country, but 
the name will bring to them scenes and ideals which will help to make their 
life brighter and nobler, and which will enable them to add to the strength and 
beauty of the Republic. Holding this opinion, I do not hesitate to remind my 
reader of the associations which abound within the realm which stretches from 
Dover to St. Kilda, and from Dingle Bay to Unst. 

There history lives. Castles and cathedrals rear their walls and towers, 
and speak both of days of proud renown and of lords whose names are lumin- 
ous in earth's annals. Each place has its story. Winchester and Westminster 



PREFACE. 9 

are crowded with royal memories. There kings hold their court and to them 
bend the knee great earls and princely prelates and noble maidens ; but 
sovereigns proud as they reign in Dumferline. Resplendant are the scenes of 
the vast drama — now a purple tragedy and now a dazzling triumph. Wood- 
stock is the hiding place of Fair Rosamond and the prison of Elizabeth Tudor ; 
later, at Kenilworth, Leicester seeks to win the love of the virgin queen. The 
Peverils rule the Derby Peak ; on Alnwick's turrets waves the banner of the 
Percy ; to the mighty house of Neville belongs the once water-circled Raby ; 
Holyrood and Lochleven have their legends of the lovely Scottish queen ; amid 
the lochs and hills beyond the Tay dwell the Macdonalds, the Camerons and 
many another famous clan ; while across the sea Tyrconuell abides behind the 
rocks of Donegal, and the Desmonds hold the Kerry wilds. And the ballads 
with their fresh, eternal life spring from places such as these ; and they touch 
soul-depths, and give renown and sweetness to hill and stream and wood. 
Untold are their delights — among them the romance of the " Nut-brown Maid," 
the pathos of the " Sands o' Dee," and of " Waly, Waly," and the witchery of 
the " Friar of Orders Grey ;" while tremulous, absorbing joy comes from the 
Reliques of Bishop Percy and Father Prout, akin to that which springs from 
the " Border Minstrelsy," and the Sherwood songs. So poets sing the glories 
of Tara and of Scone, and tell the praises of Bruce, Owain Glyndwr and Rory 
O'Connor. Nor while the warrior-spirit lives will be forgotten the fields where 
valor struggled with valor, and swords flashed fire, and wreaths of victory 
were dipped in blood. Through the ages live the stories, say, of Senlac where 
the conqueror of Tostig and the anointed of England falls before the Norman 
Duke ; of Evesham when De Montfort dies ; of North Inch where, five hundred 
years agone, the Chattan and the Quhele fought the combat famed in the ' ' Fair 
Maid of Perth ;" and of Chevy Chase, where " England's deadly arrow hail" 
wrought much misery. And there are Marston Moor, Dunbar and Worcester ; 
Killiecrankie, in which Claverhouse of Dundee fell pierced, so legend says, 
with a silver bullet ; Bannockburn, Flodden, Preston Pans and Culloden ; and 
Sedgemoor and the Boyne. These make men tremble with inexpressible 
feeling, and cause warm-souled lads to wish that they could handle the bow of 
a Sherwood archer or wield the mace of a Norman knight. The enthusiasm 
swells at the thought of Spithead and Plymouth — 

Where those great navies lie 
From floating cannon's thundering throates that all the world defye. 



io PREFACE. 

They who love the less strifeful past will linger amongst the ruins of a 
Fountains, a Dunkeld and a Melrose ; they will thank God for a Bangor, an 
Iona and a Lindisfarne, and kneel before the altar of Canterbury, Armagh or 
Llandaff. Visions rise of St. Patrick and St. Columba — prelates of imperish- 
able fame; at Wearmouth Venerable Bede, and at Lichfield Bishop Chad, kindle 
beacon-fires of truth which spread throughout the land and live throughout 
the years. The three capitals, too, have supreme charms ; some would rather 
than a Peruvian mine have had it for their portion to listen to the stern 
wisdom of Samuel Johnson, the flowing rhetoric of Curran, the hilarity and wit 
of Sydney Smith or the genial criticisms of "Christopher North." The 
"Essays of Elia" reveal the rich soul of Charles Lamb, and many lines 
display the mirthful genius of Thomas Hood. An almanac of 1671, published 
in France, has the figure of the French king riding in a triumphant chariot 
like the sun ; whereupon the Dutch published an almanac with the sun 
eclipsed by a man holding a Holland cheese. Fancy Rochester laughing at 
the humor and Charles wondering at the audacity. Along the Kentish road 
journey the pilgrims to the Martyr's shrine at Canterbury, as over Suffolk 
plains others wend to the altar of Our Lady at Walsingham. Dan Chaucer 
tells a gladder tale than did he who in the May morning slept beside a Malvern 
brook. Around Selborne wanders Gilbert White, in his perennial love of 
nature akin to the pure soul who made the angler's art the key to sweetest 
thoughts. They who love the riverside will not forget the antique-lettered 
pages of Juliana Berners, gentle abbess, pious and quaint, but only a prelude 
to the delight of wandering with Richard Jefferies by field and hedgerow, and 
of hearing him tell of the gamekeeper's home, and the poacher's tricks. 
Strolling over the Quantock Hills, Coleridge began the " Rime of the Ancient 
Mariner ; ' ' Chatterton under the shadow of St. Mary Redcliffe devised his 
Rowley Poems ; in dull, damp Olney the story of "John Gilpin" was shaped 
by Cowper ; Ludlow Castle and Milton's "Masque of Comus" are forever 
united in association ; at Shottery Shakespeare told his love to sweet Mistress 
Anne, and in the church beside the Avon with her rests in immortal glory ; 
Wordsworth dreamed in lake-strewn Westmoreland ; while in the northern 
realm the " heaven-taught ploughman " penned his passionate lyrics, and from 
the western kingdom came the living melodies of Thomas Moore. Alcuin adds 
to the fame of York, though his idea of astronomy was, first, to display the 



PREFACE. ii 

power of God, and, secondly, to fix the church calendar ; principally the latter. 
With his garrulity and gossip Samuel Pepys untiringly entertains. John 
Evelyn plants oak saplings from which later generations shall build the 
wooden walls of England. At Chicksands, in Bedfordshire, dwells the daintiest 
of maidens, Dorothy Osborne ; and verily, for grace of person and loveliness of 
character, Sir William Temple's mistress is a princess among the daughters of 
her people. So gratifying was the accession of the first Hanoverian sovereign, 
that on his landing at Greenwich the parishioners there hastened to elect him 
churchwarden ; then for two months the question was debated in the Privy 
Council whether a king could be a churchwarden, the archbishop of Canterbury 
finally declaring that he could not be both, but that he could take his choice 
and his crown again after he had served. Such reminiscences are endless. To 
those who linger amidst the flowing memories will come the convivial shadow 
of Mr. Pickwick, the echo of Dominie Sampson's "Prodigious," the innocent 
impishness of Handy Andy, and the boisterous mirth of Simon Eyre. They 
will weep with Clarissa Harlowe, and laugh over the pages of Humphrey 
Clinker. And though May Day and Gunpowder Plot are among the things of 
the past, yet they will not forget the loyal souls who by squeezing into pulp 
an orange, symbolized their wishes regarding the successor of James the 
Second, and, latter, by passing their wine over a bowl of water, indicated that 
he whose health they drank was the king beyond the sea. 

These are among the associations which gladden the heart both of the 
people of the old land and of the folk of the new country. No American will 
allow that the rich heritage these memories suggest belongs only to that part of 
the Anglo-Saxon race which has not crossed the sea. Our people claim a share 
in much more than the glory and the achievements of the past. They think 
of sea-kings, such as Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins, Cook and Nelson ; and of 
sovereigns, such as Edward the First, Elizabeth and Victoria. They picture 
again the charms of Bettws-y-Coed, the lights and shadows of the Tay, the 
inexpressible loveliness of the Valley of the Dargle or of Glengariff, and the 
beauties of Sussex downs and Devon valleys ; they recall the days of yore, 
the pageants of cities, the legends and proverbs of the country side, snatches of 
songs and fragments of stories ; and in the bewildering wealth of recollections 
and the swift, flushing joy, they know that to them full of interest is the island 
lying proudly amid Atlantic waves, honored by nations and peopled by 
world-masters. 



12 PREFACE. 

One might go on gathering such reminiscences till one became like the 
Ritter Tils of Saxon legend — who, at the bottom of a lake, everlasting sits 
at a marble table, old and hoary, with his white beard grown through the slab. 
There is to them no end. Perhaps, in my enthusiasm, I am apt to forget that 
their fascination is not universal. Britons have been known who cared not 
for such ; indeed, I verily believe that it takes an American, or, at least, a 
European who has been long out of Europe, to appreciate and to understand , 
say, either England or Germany. We are variously constituted. Graphite is 
own brother to the diamond, but, strange fantasy of nature, the one is, in 
almost all respects, the exact converse of the other — the one opaque and 
black, the other translucent and colorless — the one among the softest, the 
other the hardest of minerals. That which pleases one man may displease 
another. I am certain, however, that no Englishman ever saw as much in 
his own land as did our own Washington Irving or Henry Longfellow. 

Only to a small district in the old world does this book take my reader ; 
and now, I would have him read the book itself, in which, if he find some 
things deserving of censure, I trust he will discover many more things worth} r 
of praise. 

Philadelphia, November jo, 189J. 



SHootrsi antr Hales of Wnbrntyxt. 



'HpHE worm came up to drink the welcome shower, 
A The red-breast quaff' d the rain-drop in the bower ; 
The flaskerin^ duck through freshened lilies swam, 
The bright roach took the fly below the dam. 
Ramp'd the glad colt, and cropp'd the pensile spray, 
No more in dust uprose the sultry way ; 
The lark was in the cloud, the woodbine hung 
More sweetly o'er the chaffinch while he sung ; 
And the wild rope, from every dripping bush, 
Beheld on silvery Sheaf the mirrored blush. 



Although Derby is one of the oldest and most flourishing towns in 
the kingdom and has about it much that is historically interesting, yet 
Derby does not win the attention or excite the emotions of the traveller. 
Seen from a distance, one is indeed led to hope for much. Amidst the 
clouds of smoke which float over the town and darken the valley in which 
it is situate, rise towers and spires graceful and lofty enough to gladden 
the artist and the ecclesiologist, but closer acquaintance only too readily 
reveals the tastelessness and commonplace character of the buildings 
themselves. The heart is not brightened even by the fact that in All 
Saints' Church lies buried Bess of Hardwick, or that both All Saints' and 
St. Alkmund date from near the Danish invasion of Mercia. And though 
there are several structures of justifiable pretensions, and though they 
who care for manufactures may find much satisfaction in the numerous 
porcelain, silk and iron works, yet such things scarcely move one who has 
seen the chimneys of southern Yorkshire or wandered through the towns 
of the Black Country. The streets are dingy and dusty. The houses for 
the greater part are dull, heavy and uninviting, some of them disfigured 
with signs and most of them, even when evidently the homes of a comfort- 
able and well-to-do, if not an opulent people, not such as to occasion a 
second look. 



14 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

By those who know the place well we are told that the impression 
made upon the stranger is as unfair as it is unfortunate, and that in this 
ancient Deoraby or home of the deer, as the Danes called it, are many ob- 
jects worthy of study and admiration. There is the Chapel of St. Mary 
on the bridge over the Derwent, founded in days when men paid toll in 
crossing rivers, and also thought it worth their while to stop by the way- 
side and pray for a blessing on themselves and their goods or pursuits. 
Much older is the Church of St. Peter, with its towers and walls gray with 
time or covered with ivy, having in its chancel a remarkable Flemish 
chest and in its yard a Free School, established over seven hundred years 
ago by Walter Durdant, Bishop of Coventry. And there are the Devon- 
shire Almshouses, founded by Bess of Hardwick ; and once there were the 
Black Almshouses endowed by Robert Wilmot, of Chaddesdon — proof suf- 
ficient that the Derbyshire folk praiseworthily united in good works the 
purposes of saving their own souls and of helping their poor neighbors. 
And if sympathy with modern progress be thought more of than these 
relics of the olden time, it is plain to see that no longer is Derby what 
Defoe declared it, "a town of gentry rather than trade. ' ' Commerce has 
given to the place a life and an energy greater than it possessed in the far- 
off ages when in it men coined money and dyed cloth — perhaps, some will 
say, more to be desired than the spirit which here possessed the folk when 
they stole and sang hymns with the Cromwellians, or shouldered muskets 
for William of Orange, or cheered Bonnie Prince Charlie ere Culloden for- 
ever destroyed the hope of the Stuarts. Notwithstanding all this, and 
much more that might be said, the town fails to delight. 

This may be, after all, not so much from any fault of its own, but be- 
cause behind and north of Derby lies a country whose hills and dales, and 
wooded slopes and wandering streams not only make up a landscape both 
grand and lovely, but also speak of legend, history and romance. Derby 
is the gateway of the Peak ; and with the imagination stirred at the 
prospect of glories rivalling those of Switzerland, no wonder the busy, 
noisy town is neglected and soon forgotten. In the Gentleman's Magazine 
for April, 1776, is an extract from a manuscript sermon probably delivered 
about the time of the Restoration, in which the preacher — supposed to be 
Dr. Gardiner, of Eckington — indulges in the praise of his beloved county, 
taking for his text the words of Moses in Deuteronomy 8 : 7-9 : "It is a 
good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains, and depths that spring 
out of the hills." "What's this," says he, of the inspired passage, 
"What's this but a description, as in a type, of our own county Derby- 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 15 

shire ? What pen could have drawn it forth more graphically and ex- 
actly ? ' ' And after many lines in which beats and glows the enthusiasm 
of the good divine, he adds — getting dangerously near an anti-climax : 
" What shall I say more ? for time would fail me sooner than matter. A 
land of wheate and barley, oates and pease, that affords seed to the sower, 
and bread to the eater, who takes paines to get a good stomache. ' ' Yet 
he stops not here, but continues : " It enjoys good aire, fertile ground, 
pleasant waters ; fire and fuel of the best ; neighbouring counties fetch her 
coles from farr, who, being warmed by her fires, cannot but wish and call 
her blessed." The men who heard these and like words afterwards dined 
together, and I have no doubt drank heartily to the welfare of the region 
which had won their affections. Probably they got as warm and happy 
as Englishmen abroad are apt to do on St. George's Day when, roast beef 
and plum pudding done, the ale flows freely and songs are sung and 
speeches made in honor of the land beyond the seas. In truth, Derbyshire 
is worthy of praise ; as worthy to-day as it was by those convivial souls 
two hundred and fifty years ago. There through valleys, sometimes wild 
as Scottish glens, and sometimes picturesque and quiet as Berkshire itself, 
flow the Derwent and the Wye, the Dove, the Trent and the Rother. 
There are lofty heights that pierce the white mists and send long shadows 
far towards the Merrie Sherwood, and back across the plain edged by the 
glittering Dee — heights such as Kinder Scout, the Peak and Axe Edge, 
which suggest to the dweller in the lowlands the mountain-mystery 
known only to him whose days are spent in Pyrenean solitudes or amidst 
the grandeur of the storm-bleached Alps. There are castles and mansions, 
a few fresh as from the builders of to-day, but many more gray with 
the moss of time and weird with ghostly story or curious tale. Fuller well 
put it when he said, " God hath more manifested His might in this than 
in any other county of England ; " or, to use the words of the sermon just 
referred to, we may say, Derbyshire is " a country wherein Nature sports 
itselfe, leaping up and down, as it were, in the pleasant variety of hills 
and valleys, until being weary it recreate itselfe at Chatsworth, Boulsover, 
or Hardicke." 

Earlier we found ourselves in this winsome land, and now again ere 
our days beyond the sea come to an end, in a morning when the August 
sun makes golden the mists and clouds which hang along the hills, we 
start from Derby on a journey that shall take us to sweet Ashbourne, and 
to Youlgrave and Bakewell, through the country hallowed by the memo- 
ries of Izaak Walton. Now comes to us a tender joy, for, as I shall pres- 



16 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

ently show, we shall see many things that not only are in themselves 
beautiful, but also are associated with friends and events dear to us. 

The distance by the highway from Derby to Ashbourne is about 
thirteen miles, but, with the exception at Mackworth of a gate-house of a 
fifteenth century castle, and a fine view of Ashbourne from the steep hill 
near the town, the road has little to commend it. A better route is by 
railway, for though the train moves over the thirty miles leisurely enough 
to enable one to count the sparrows that settle on the telegraph wires, yet 
in pretty scenes and quaint villages the interest never flags. Perhaps, to 
save time, had the weather been more certain and the roads less heavy, 
we should have gone by the former way, but rain had fallen constantly 
the day before, and this morning gave none too sure a promise of clearing 
up ; so, in spite of gleaming sunshine, and the temptation to stay longer 
in Derby, we committed ourselves with patience and resignation to a 
second-class. We made no mistake. Before Tutbury was reached we had 
our first glimpse of the romantic and erratic Dove — sweetest stream to all 
lovers of the rod and line ; none less dear to all who know quaint Izaak, 
and his pupil of the hook and fly. The pretty brook, princess of rivers, 
as Cotton calls it, like a playful and capricious maiden wanders hither and 
thither across the low, green fields, its clear waters scarcely less rapid and 
eddying now than when coursing through the glens shadowed by the 
high-crested cliffs. Under the willows and the flags lurks the swift and 
ghostly grayling — the flower of fishes, according to St. Ambrose — which 
some say feeds on gold, and others on water-thyme. It was beside such a 
stream that Dean Nowell, of famous memory and of thorough Elizabethan 
scholarship, made a discovery for which others besides anglers have been 
grateful. Fuller tells the story, and far stranger than that I should re- 
peat it, is the fact that Mr. Augustus Toplady gives it in his grave and 
ponderous " Historic Proof of the Doctrinal Calvinism of the Church of 
England." No one marvels at Fuller, but one would as soon expect to 
find a rose growing on an iceberg as to come across a ripple of humor in 
a dry theological treatise. Nowell was a sad divine, that is to say, grave 
and sober, as men in his day used the word "sad " ; but like St. Peter he 
was fond of fishing. After one of his fishing expeditions, he happened to 
leave a bottle of ale in the grass. " He found it some days after," says 
Fuller — Mr. Toplady quoting him — "no bottle, but a gun, so loud was the 
sound at the opening thereof ; and this is believed to have been the original 
of bottled ale in this kingdom. ' ' So that we are indebted to Dean Nowell for 
more than his catechism. Perhaps this may be the scene of the adventure. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 17 

I forget. Before we can straighten out our recollections of the Dove, we 
behold the hill on which stand the ruins of Tutbury Castle rising ab- 
ruptly and commandingly from the plain. 

Some ingenuity has been expended upon the etymology of the name 
of this place ; and possibly they may be right who contend that the name 
comes from the god Tiw, whose immortality is more ensured in the 
nomenclature of the week than in memories of his celestial and military 
glory. Indeed, except by scholars, forgotten is the wolf-bitten deity who 
went to the battle sure of victory, and by the ravens and wolves was 
followed to the fields of the slain. He sent pale fear to the hearts of the 
foe and out of forest shades burst upon the unwary, and from their throats 
forced the death-cry. Worthy of his all-golden mother and of Odin was 
Tiw thought to be, but whether Tutbury was one of his shrines or was 
even named after him, I am not careful to inquire. Nor need evidence of 
the age of the town be sought in this etymology ; its termination and its 
known history show it to be of Early English origin. It is not only men- 
tioned in Domesday, but three hundred years earlier it was a home of the 
lords of Mercia. Overlooking, as it does, a considerable expanse of coun- 
try, and commanding the valley of the Dove, its lofty red sandstone rock 
would be quickly seized upon for military purposes. It is doubtful if any 
fragment remains of the castle which William the Conqueror gave to 
Henry de Ferrars. Possibly when the place came into the hands of John 
of Gaunt the earlier structure was torn down and the outworks, walls, 
towers and halls built afresh on a more magnificent scale. At all events, 
several parts of the ruins are pointed out as his work, and tradition affirms 
this to have been one of his favorite residences. The Parliamentarians, 
after an obstinate siege, about 1646, dismantled the castle, and from that 
day to this armed men have no more exercised in the Tilt Yard, and gone 
is the mirth that once gladdened the great hall. I cannot climb the 
mound where once stood the Julius Tower, and which is now the highest 
part of Tutbury, and, as others have done, look upon the Dove meandering 
through the woodlands and the fields, and admire a landscape edged by 
the hills of Matlock and bestrewn with parks and hamlets. The reverse 
view only is mine. It is enough. Few places are more picturesque. The 
broken walls are partly hidden among the heavily-foliaged trees, and, seen 
from the valley, suggest the romance of the days that can never come 
again. A little lower, is the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, built in 
Norman days and until, in the thirtieth year of Henry VIII, dissolution 
came, belonging to a neighboring Cluniac priory. Archbishop Cranmer 



lS WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

lets his " very singular good lord," Thomas Cromwell, know that " I did 
put your lordship in remembrance for the suppression of the abbey of 
Tudberye." Then come the cottages, standing where once stood the 
homes of the castle hinds and servitors. Time has wrought mighty 
changes, but nature has given a glory that enhances and makes more 
than ever delightful this fortressed height. The ivy winds along the 
crumbled battlements; the elms bend their green boughs as though to 
hinder the gaze of the over-curious. As I look up to the towers, again the 
sunlight breaks upon them — the same dear, merry sun that Mary, Queen 
of Scots, and Charles the First beheld, when so long ago they for a brief 
while dwelt there. 

While the train moves slowly on, I can tell you that in bygone days 
this Tutbury was a gamesome place. Legend says that Robin Hood 
played some of his pranks in the neighborhood, and they who indulge in 
speculations concerning the Sherwood hero claim that his father, who is 
fondly supposed to have been an earl, lost his title and his property 
because of the part he took with Robert de Ferrers, lord of Tutbury, in 
the rebellions of Henry II. It may be that the Tutburians thought that 
their character for lightheartedness was furthered by connection with the 
merrie archer ; and that they had a good right to the character, if not to 
the connection, is shown by a charter granted them in 1381 by the famous 
Duke of Lancaster. At that time, when great hospitality was exercised 
and much power displayed at the castle, many minstrels, jugglers, wits, 
and brethren of that ilk gathered there, both for their own benefit and for 
the amusement of the lord and his numerous guests. The gleemen were 
apt to dispute and even to quarrel among themselves, to prevent which 
John of Gaunt ordained that one of their number should be appointed 
governor and arbitrator over the rest, and styled ' ' King of the Fiddlers. ' ' 
By the middle of the eighteenth century the ' ' honorable and ancient 
court of the minstrels" had reached its decadence, but between that time 
and its institution it had acquired some power and not a little property. 
Certainly as late as 1772 the court lay claim to a parcel of ground at Tut- 
bury known as the Pipers' Meadow ; and because, for some reason or 
other, the rent of this land had been withheld from the minstrels, the 
king and his jurors and stewards inform the then Duke of Devonshire that 
the court cannot keep up its members. Unless redress be afforded there 
soon will be no king and no officers, and worse than all else there will be 
no bull-running. I fancy help came not ; and now all is gone — even the 
native love of bull-baiting, which had lasted from the days when, service 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 19 

in the church and dinner in the hall over, the good fathers of Tutbury 
Abbey gave the minstrels a chance of catching a bull. After the Reform- 
ation the Duke of Devonshire continued the monks' gift. 

Nobody living has seen such fun as was provided for the singing men. 
On the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin — the August I^ady 
Day, as it was sometimes called — *a bull was turned out of a barn by the 
town-side with his horns cut off, his ears and tail reduced to the utmost, 
his body besmeared with soap, and his nostrils stuffed with beaten pepper. 
The minstrels were allowed to sunset for the pursuit and capture of the 
slippery and infuriated animal. No one was permitted to help or to hinder 
them in their efforts. If the time passed or the bull crossed the county 
line, the minstrels lost their game ; on the other hand, if they succeeded in 
holding him long enough to cut off a piece of his hair, he was collared and 
roped and brought to the market cross or bull-ring, there to be badgered 
and baited in true brutal and barbarous style. Some ancient authorities 
contend that baited beef is of all meats the tenderest and sweetest. The 
uproar occasioned by this sport — which, by the way, was practised as late 
as the last century in almost every town and village throughout the king- 
dom — is described in a ballad which may be found in the first volume of a 
collection published in 1723, and attributed to Ambrose Phillips ; the said 
ballad being entitled, ' ' The Pedigree, Education and Marriage of Robiu 
Hood with Clorinda, Queen of Titbury Feast." I do not know that the 
editor of the book referred to is right in describing this song as " the most 
beautiful and one of the oldest extant, written on the subject ; " but from 
it we learn of the strange shoutings, the mad looks, the fighting and the 
fiddling while the ' ' bagpipes baited the bull. ' ' Rather a rough time and 
place for a wedding ; nevertheless, the gentle maiden, who the da}' before 
had sent an arrow through a fat buck bounding under the greenwood tree, 
was by "Sir Roger, the Parson of Dubbridge," wedded to bold Robin. 
Not always, however, did the bull-baiting at Tutbury have so happy an 
ending— for that it had such, after we are told that " the birds sung with 
pleasure in merry Sherwood," the king of the fiddlers himself declares, 
" the music struck up and we all fell to dance." At other times, in spite 
of the king, ere the pools of blood in the High Street were dried up, 
ensued a free fight in which heads and arms were broken, outrages com- 
mitted, and not unfrequently death happened. Our forefathers liked this 
sort of thing ; they delighted in the raging of the chafed bull, and for 
centuries Tutbury retained its reputation and partiality for the like. Now, 
as the Duke of Devonshire did not adjust the minstrel's claim to the 



so WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE). 

Pipers' Meadow, no bulls are provided and the king of the fiddlers has 
ceased to reign. 

There were tenures, too, jocular tenures they have been called — I 
suppose by way of suggestion — which go to show how merrily the air of 
Tutbury affected its people. For instance, the knight who held a certain 
manor of the lord of this castle was bound on Christmas Day to carve for 
his lord and to serve him at table, and two days later to bid him farewell 
with a kiss. Other manors were held upon condition that the holder 
hunted in the woods so many days for wild swine. When the time ex- 
pired he was to dine with the steward at the castle, kiss the porter and 
depart. 

Many a curious bit of histor}: could be told of this abode of Mercian 
and Norman barons, but none perhaps more sad than of the days when 
under the guardianship of Bess of Hardwick, Mary Queen of Scots here 
languished. From the lofty battlements that unfortunate sovereign could 
see, beyond the broad, deep moat and flanking ramparts and towers which 
surrounded her, the winding Dove and the wilds of Needwood. Perchance 
upon her ears fell the roisterous cries of the folk who kept " Titbury Day," 
and some gossip may have brought her word of the winner of the archery 
prize, of the mightiest wrestler or quoit-thrower, or of the madcap pranks 
of the king of the minstrels. But the halberdmen outside her doors and 
the vigilance of her custodians reminded her ever of darker and more 
serious things than these. Of this, however, everybody knows, and it 
needs not that I should again go over her pathetic and romantic story. 
Nor will time suffer me to say more than a word concerning that Thomas, 
Earl of Lancaster, who, more than five hundred 3-ears ago was Lord of 
Tutbury, and whose work for the betterment of England has not been 
altogether fruitless or forgotten. Highborn, indeed of royal blood, and 
the possessor of five earldoms and of several offices of state, was he. His 
personal character, to be sure, was not of the best. Unscrupulous, coarse 
and violent, he was unfaithful to his wife and rude to his friends. Like 
others of his kind in those rough days, he killed and he robbed. But for 
all this he stood out bravely and consistently against the folly and tyranny 
of his weak-minded cousin, Edward II. The people looked to him as the 
defender and champion of their rights ; the clergy regarded him with high 
favor. Daringly rebuked he the king for his partiality towards Piers 
Gaveston ; not purely from unselfish motives, perhaps, and yet thereby 
rendering the best of service both to prince and country. His presence in 
the June of 131 2, at the murder of the royal favorite, was remembered by 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 21 

his enemies when he came to his own unhappy ending. Again and again 
he lifted up his voice and hand for the freedom of England, till at last he 
headed a rebellion against the king. In the late winter of 132 1 he fled at 
the approach of the king's army, and soon Tutbury surrendered at the 
royal bidding. A month later he was taken at the battle of Borough- 
bridge, and within a week, at his own castle of Pomfret, he was condemned 
and beheaded. Then in a little while men forgot his vices and his mis- 
takes, and looked upon him as a patriot and a martyr. They remembered 
his liberality to the poor, and found their reward in the rising of the 
Lancastrian tide. Soon miracles were wrought at his tomb and petitions 
were made for his canonization. Walsingham says he was declared a 
saint in 1390, and seventy years later people saw blood drop from his 
relics, and found a visit to his shrine helpful in many bodily infirmities. 
Saints are fashioned out of odd stuff sometimes, but they who know the 
character of Thomas of Lancaster, even though they sympathize, if not 
with his motives, at least with the trend of his political life, must smile 
under their eyelids at his beatification. In the happy days of the Tudors, 
Bishop Bale thought it worth his while to call him a " false martyr ;" but 
then Bishop Bale's heart was hard and cold as the alabaster which, after 
leaving Tutbury, we saw quarried by the roadside. 

It is not altogether the mingled light and shade which make the 
country look more beautiful the farther we go. Yet broken clouds are 
helpful, and the sunshine which falls through the rents and rifts gives a 
peculiar and winning charm to field and hillside, blending colors and soften- 
ing lines, deep and rich as in a vignette of finest workmanship. For these 
bits of loveliness we may well be thankful ; also for the leisurely progress 
of the train which enables us to mark the sinuosities of the river and the 
approaches of the forest. Sudbury is on the edge of the great tract of 
woodland known as Needham, and through the trees one catches a glimpse 
of the fine red mansion built in the seventeenth century, and set in a park 
of more than half a thousand acres. Other halls come into sight further 
on ; also church spires, and before we reach Uttoxeter we distinguish the 
Weaver Hills, a bleak and dreary range which here marks the beginning of 
the Peak country. 

At Uttoxeter we change trains for Ashbourne. There is no need of 
hurry : this is another of those happy places where people take time to 
live. Therefore we can possess our soul in patience, and while the shower 
which now has broken upon us lasts, wait under shelter. Moreover, the 
guard is not ready. Judging from the high words that are passing between 
3 



22 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

him and that rustic-clad old man by the booking office, he has trouble on 
his hands. Ducks, I hear him say. The old man sold him a pair and 
did not remember how long a time had elapsed since they were killed. 
Poulterers are often forgetful of such' matters. No, I cannot say whether 
that extraordinary-looking lady, with the curls and the sharp nose, is the 
wife of the clergyman who is holding over her two-thirds of his gingham. 
He is gray : she has reached that age in which a woman stays the number 
of her years, not being willing to say one thing one day and another thing 
a twelvemonth later. Her packages are numerous and heavy : the good 
man carries them for her and listens as she talks to him, now about her 
little nephew's whooping cough, and now about somebody's girls she saw 
at Cheadle fair. Was ever face so funny as hers ? She is not his wife. 
Perpetual virginity is marked in every expression of her countenance and 
voice. She has no more chance of getting a husband than an English 
curate after five and thirty years of service has of getting a benefice ; and, 
by the way, if a priest holds a curacy that long, the Church is apt to leave 
all further care of him to God. And she, the maid I mean, is happj' — 
smiling, as the country people say, like a basket of chips — though for the 
life of me I do not know how chips can be supposed to smile. Now he is 
telling her a story, the dear soul ; but he will spoil it, unless he looks 
graver and gets along a little faster. As he laughs, she laughs. I suspect 
she already sees the point of the story, for these maidens of uncertain 
years are very knowing. And the rain pours down as though Staffordshire 
had fallen into the region of the Doldrums. But there is a story about 
Uttoxeter which the whole world knows, and because the whole world 
knows it I must tell it, or else receive the greater blame. 

It is a neat-looking town, this Uttoxeter; healthful and ancient. It 
was a British settlement before the Romans entered the land. But to the 
stranger nothing in its history is of greater interest than its connection with 
Dr. Johnson. Michael, the father of Samuel, was a bookseller living at 
Lichfield and coming on market days to Uttoxeter, where he had a stall, 
at which people might buy any publication from a tractate on the Apoca- 
lypse up to that most condite work upon the L,atin tongue, the Grammat- 
ica-Anglo-Romana, or "The Praeternatural State of Animal Humours," a 
book of which I know only the title. Samuel sometimes accompanied his 
father on these business journeys to Uttoxeter and, like a newly-aproned 
stationer, helped him with more or less efficiency at his "station," as 
bookstalls once were called. But on one occasion Samuel refused to go. 
He has himself told the circumstance and its result. Said he: "Once, 




Xtcbffelfc CatbcDral. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 23 

indeed, I was disobedient : I refused to attend my father to Uttoxeter 
market. Pride was the source of that refusal, and the remembrance of it 
was painful. A few years ago I desired to atone for this fault. I went to 
Uttoxeter in very bad weather, and stood for a considerable time bare- 
headed in the rain, on the spot where my father's stall used to stand. In 
contrition I stood, and I hope the penance was expiatory." 

There have been those who have taken this as a proof — a painful 
proof, I think they call it — of the misconception Dr. Johnson had of the 
nature of the Atonement. I confess I should like to see such folk go 
where the locusts went after God sent the strong west wind over the land 
of Egypt, and where till recent years unquiet and unhappy ghosts were 
also dispatched. Better would the world be had it more men of the con- 
scientiousness and integrity of Dr. Johnson. He may have been uncouth 
and discourteous — at least so Boswell has represented him, though it 
would have been more than human always to treat tenderly the buzzing, 
inquisitive writer of the signet, especially when the latter put to the irri- 
table lexicographer such questions as "What would you do, sir, if you 
were locked up in a tower with a baby ? " — but when he knew wrong had 
been done, he sought diligently to make amends for it ; which is not 
unseldom an example left alone by many who regard themselves as theo- 
logically correct. In the market place there is a replica of a bas-relief on 
the pedestal of Dr. Johnson's statue at Lichfield representing this event. 
The story has been embellished in the course of time, so that we are told 
that the father was sick and unable to go to Uttoxeter on the occasion of 
Samuel's disobedience, and that while the penance was being performed, 
the boys hooted the good man as he stood exposed to the inclement 
weather. There is no evidence for either particular ; nor are they neces- 
sary to the presentation of the scene. No one will ever forget the gray 
hairs dishevelled by the wind and rain. 

Again we move. The rain has ceased, and we lose sight of Uttoxeter 
spire as we wind along the strath of the Dove. Now the sun comes out. 
Rocester reminds me that we are not far from Alton Towers, ' ' one of the 
most exquisitely beautiful demesnes in England. ' ' They who have seen 
that stately and interesting mansion, its towers and walls, quaintly irregu- 
lar and delightfully picturesque, rising from amidst the great trees near 
the lake, declare it to be "a painter's dream realized in antique stone, a 
poet's vision rendered permanent forever." Such praise is not exagger- 
ated. The house is not indeed that in which the ancient earls of Shrews- 
bury dwelt ; but it is all that the architectural skill of the nineteenth 



24 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

century, inspired by a just appreciation of master work, guided by the finest 
taste and furthered by almost boundless wealth, could accomplish. It 
suggests the glory of that past which rests upon the whole neighborhood 
and upon the name of Talbot. Inside are halls and galleries and cham- 
bers where are gathered objects of marvellous interest — pictures, armor, 
sculpture, portraits and heraldic devices : memories of Talbot, DeValence, 
Nevile, Bohun and Strongbow, and many another family noble in Eng- 
land and renowned in the annals of chivalry. Nor are evidences wanting 
of the piety of the founders and maintainers of the place. Not only in the 
library are well-chosen texts illustrating the worth of wisdom, but around 
the cornice of the cathedral-like conservatory run the words : " Consider 
the lilies of the field, how they grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin ; 
and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed 
like one of these. ' ' In the vestibule of this abode of flowers is the motto, 
' ' The speech of flowers exceeds all flowers of speech. ' ' The gardens, too, 
and terraces, lawns, arcades and ponds, with their unfailing charm, dream- 
like, lying in a deep valley bordered with woodland of densest foliage, 
entrance and delight. One never tires of wandering along the labyrinthine 
and tree-shaded paths, now to come unexpectedly upon some device of 
cave or waterfall or trellis-work, in which Nature has been outdone by Art, 
and now to listen in most grateful solitude to the play of fountains, the 
twittering of birds, or the seolian strains among the cedars and the pines. 
From these extensive grounds fine views of the house are to be had, of 
which none is more romantic than that from the Eower Terrace. He who 
has seen the pinnacles and turrets of Alton rising above the tall elms, in 
the light of the full moon, and remembers the efforts which were needed to 
reduce the wilderness to order and to display therein the triumph of in- 
genious and satisfying art, will readily assent to the truth of the line on the 
cenotaph of Charles, Earl of Shrewsbury, the noble builder, "He made 
the desert smile. ' ' 

The village of Ellastone lies a little this side of Alton Towers, and not 
far to our left. This is the place called Hayslope in "Adam Bede," and 
here was the carpenter's shop, not of the fictitious Mr. Jonathan Burge, 
but of George Eliot's own relatives. Indeed, in Adam Bede — who some- 
how or other always reminds me of John Ridd — may be seen a picture of 
her father, and in Mrs. Poyser a suggestion of her step-mother. In the 
Donnithorne Arms you have the Bromley Arms, where for the traveller 
and his horse good cheer never fails, and where the floor-quarries ring 
with the steel tips and heels of ale-loving villagers. George Eliot has 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 25 

well depicted village life, and in her earlier novels has given many faithful 
sketches of rural Derbyshire. If we had opportunity to walk from the 
stooping willows by the brookside and along the bushy hedgerows into this 
Ellastone, we should surely meet with the prototype of Sandy Jim and 
Wiry Ben, of grief- worn L,isbeth and light-hearted Hetty ; perhaps, of the 
old schoolmaster whose wisdom was manifested in sententious utterances 
such as, " College mostly makes people like bladders — just good for noth- 
ing but t'hold the stuff as is poured into 'em." I am afraid we should see 
no Mr. Irwine, and I am heartily sorry. That type of parson has gone, 
and I am not sure that the new kind will in the long run prove the equal 
of the old ; nor do I know that the nineteenth century understands the 
nature of religion better than did the ancients. After all, the man who 
can come, say, out of horse- dealing with a clean record, and thereby shows 
that he has done his duty to his neighbor, and would not suffer quitch to 
grow in his garden, is probably a better Christian than he who lets the 
Five Points of Arminius prick his conscience or attempts to discuss the 
application of the Athanasian Symbol to the Darwinian theory. Changes 
have come since that evening when Dinah Morris lifted up her sweet and 
soulful voice on the village green : much for the better, I suppose, though 
the hollyhocks and the southernwood are as they ever were, and the old 
crab-tree drops year in and year out but a few less sourings. 

No, fond as the people hereabouts are of flowers, it is next to certain 
they never heard the legend of the snowdrop. I do not know that it grows 
in this neighborhood, and the young lady standing on the platform at 
Norbury was a little out of season with a cluster of them in her hat. 
Daisies, were they? Well, there is a difference ; but the story is, that an 
angel was sent to comfort Eve as she wept over her expulsion from Eden 
and the barrenness of the earth outside. The wilderness was not as the 
garden, though it is said that even in the garden no flowers grew ; prob- 
ably the thistles, of which Adam must have known something, had not 
then the rich purple bloom of the Scottish kind. But nature was merciful, 
and sent the fast-falling snow to hide the dreary earth. And as the angel 
talked to Eve he caught a flake of the snow, and breathing upon it, bade 
it take a form and bud and blow. Before it reached the ground it had 
become a beautiful flower, and when the angel went away, where he had 
stood appeared a beautiful circlet of snowdrops. Then Eve rejoiced, for 
she knew that the sun and the summer would come. 

Here is the last station next to our journey's end. Now is the parson 
leaving the train ; also his female friend. A trap is waiting for him and 



26 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

his hamper of hens and guinea fowl. He must farm his glebe or, at all 
events, grow his own poultry. That stalwart lad in knickerbockers will 
surely wring the old man's hand off: he has a heartier and more natural 
grip than the London tip-over. Even the wrinkled and happy maid likes 
his grasp, though she winces slightly as her hand writhes in the vice. 
"Tickets," says the collector at the door. "Any chance of getting to 
Ashbourne before night?" " There directly, sir. " Bang goes the door. 
" Get in," cries the guard ; " going." Blessed prospect ! We have been 
going for the last two hours, and yet number only twenty-seven miles 
from Derby. 

Down pours the rain again : surely the gods have tipped over the 
bowls of water. The woodpeckers will now have enough to drink. Per- 
haps it is the snipe rather than the woodpecker that, because of his refusal 
at the creation to help dig a pond, can only slake his thirst by picking the 
raindrops off the leaves or sipping the water out of the cart-ruts. Be 
that as it may, as he cannot drink out of a brook or a well, when there is 
drought and the bird is sore athirst, his pain-stricken cry creates pity in 
heaven, and the rain is given. At this moment there seems to be more 
pity than is necessary : the showers fall in sheets. And there is Ash- 
bourne, nestling between the green hills, with its beautiful church, the 
Pride of the Peak ! 

The railway ends here, and the man who would venture to carry it 
further should be sent to Terra del Fuego without delay or pity. There 
is one omnibus at the station capable of carrying four persons, provided 
they are not children of Anak. Should another Dr. Johnson come, 
though Ashbourne can scarcely boast of such splendor now, there would 
be an effort, I imagine, to have for him a conveyance like unto that ' ' large, 
roomy post-chaise" of which Boswell speaks, "drawn by four stout 
horses, and driven by two steady, jolly postillions" — "an equipage 
properly suited for a wealthy beneficed clergyman. ' ' I suppose this plain, 
little, mudsplashed vehicle goes to the "Green Man," but nobody seems 
either to care or to know. However, we get in and patiently abide the 
will of the gaunt chap who has charge of the Rozinante between the 
shafts. After attending to his business he prepares to start. To us he is 
indifferent : slams the door to, pitches a flat and two or three bundles on 
the roof, passes a joke with one of the porters, and finally mounts the box, 
jerks the reins and cracks his whip. In two minutes we cross the stone 
bridge over the Schoo or Henmore, a tiny tributary of the Dove, and from 
which the town derives its name. Bourne, as most people know, is Early 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 27 

English for water; ash, too, is a corruption of the British and Roman 
words Uisce and Isca, meaning the same thing, as appears in the York- 
shire Eske and the Netherlandish Esch. The expression, therefore, is 
pleonastic, like " River Avon ;" though it is not unreasonable to remem- 
ber that "bourne" also means boundary or frontier, as is shown in the 
well-known words of Hamlet, and thus this place-name may signify the 
" brook boundary. " This poor little stream, flowing the length of the town 
through the low, marshy ground, divides Ashbourne proper from that 
part of it strictly called Compton, anciently Campdene. Together the 
town and suburb contain less than four thousand inhabitants ; and as is 
fitting, the railway station is in the smaller portion. In olden time the 
brook had in it both trout and grayling ; but it passes out of sight and 
mind as by the churchyard the road turns into Church Street, the principal 
thoroughfare of Ashbourne. Of this picturesque and ancient street I shall 
say more anon. We drive on through the rain till we reach the sign of 
the Green Man and the Black's Head Hotel swinging on a beam stretched 
across the street. Here is our inn. From overhead in the low archway 
leading into the yard hang a brace of birds, a roast of beef and a leg of 
mutton. On either side of this passage are stone doorsteps, white and 
clean. Here a door leads to that part of the house in which are the tap 
and the large dining-room ; there a door opens into the more private 
quarters, where are to be found, as later we learned, a snug sitting-room 
and a parlor. At first sight we are satisfied that here is one of those 
pleasant and comfortable hostelries associated with the stage-coach days 
of England. 

The driver lets us out, and at the door we are met by a bright and 
sprightly maid, who, in reply to our request for hospitality, proceeds to find 
the hostess. This maid, we afterwards found out, was one of half a dozen 
equally bright and sprightly damsels — a comforting fact, for even a Dove 
trout tastes better served by a nice-looking, clean waitress. And, indeed, 
some of these inn-girls are perfect Niobes, with lips as dainty and fingers 
as pink as any the novelists used to give to their heroines. The landlady 
herself appears : even such as Boswell described one of her predecessors, 
' ' a mighty civil gentlewoman. ' ' She is polite and genial, able, with a becom- 
ing courtesy, to dispense the hospitality of this "very good inn," and at 
once making the stranger feel entirely at home. Such, I understand, has 
been the character of those who have kept this house since Mistress Kill- 
ingley's time — the good soul, who one September morning, in the year of 
grace 1777, presented to our friend James Boswell a card, in which, after ask- 



28 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

ing him to speak a kind word for the house, she assured him that for him 
to do so " would be a singular favor conferred on one who has it not in her 
power to make any other return but her most grateful thanks, and sin- 
cerest prayers for his happiness in time, and in a blessed eternity." Mrs. 
Fanny Wallis is just as good, and wins our respect as soon as we see her. 
Yes, she can let us have room number five, and to room number five 
we go. 

It is a neat, low-ceiling chamber at the end of a narrow passage. On 
the mantelpiece are some ornaments, especially one of a lover and his lass, 
which in their day cost next to nothing, but which now would stir up the 
cupidity of even an amateur collector. We are assured that the beds are 
as comfortable and as well-aired as any beds in Derbyshire, which is say- 
ing much, for this county is famous among the forty counties of England 
for the quality of its beds — I had almost said "for the quantity," for as I 
looked upon the height and breadth of the two in this room I wondered how 
many flocks of geese it took to fill them. On the walls were two or three 
pictures, but my attention was drawn to an elaborate piece of penmanship 
wrought, so an inscription said, by Edwin Hargreaves, in the year 1847, ne 
being then a pupil at W. Hawksworth's Seminary. As it hung there in its 
neat frame, it did both scholar and master credit. The good boy set forth 
in curious devices the Lord's Prayer, and illustrated it with pictures of 
angels harping, of flying cherubs, of Christ in Prayer and of the Lamb 
and the Cross. Such things are worthy of notice, for they tell a story of 
perseverance, hope and satisfaction : busy brains devised and busy fingers 
executed them. A.nd how proud the boy was when he showed his work 
of art to wondering father and admiring mother ! Both agree that never was 
such a lad. I trust that young Master Hargreaves' display of skill will always 
adorn those walls, if for no other purpose, yet, at least, to recall to the travel- 
ler some of the most precious experiences of life and to remind him of 
duties and devotions too often forgotten. We like the room all the better 
for that boy's industry, and though I have never elsewhere heard of him, 
and have no knowledge whether he be alive or dead, or whether his days 
on earth have been happy and useful or the reverse, much should I wish 
him to know how carefully we examined his workmanship, and how freely 
we allowed imagination to run whithersoever it would. 

The rain has stopped, and we set out for the church. On the way we 
find the sexton, Mr. John Goodman, a kindly-natured and an intelligent 
guide. His enthusiasm delighted, and his thorough acquaintance with 
the church and neighborhood proved most helpful. With him we entered 




O 









WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 29 

the churchyard through the eastern gates — which gates are curiously 
adorned with flames and death's heads — and turning from the vicar's walk, 
a beautiful lime-tree avenue running the whole length of the northern 
side of the churchyard, twelve hundred feet, proceeded to the south tran- 
sept door. On the way I read the following lines, descriptive of a matron 
who died more than sixty years ago : 

In brief to speak, let this suffice, 
She was a wife both frugal, good and wise ; 
Of children careful, to her husband kind : 
All certain symptoms of a virtuous mind. 

The history of this church, which George Eliot declared to be the 
finest parish church in the kingdom, may be soon told. At the time of 
the Domesday Survey, about 1086, there was here a house of God. How 
long it had existed cannot now be certainly known, but that it had obtained 
some endowment is probable from the fact that, early in his reign, William 
Rufus sequestered the church and its estate for his own purposes. Once 
in a while, however, the Red King repented of the evil he had done. In 
1093 ne allowed the see of Canterbury, after three years' vacancy, to be 
filled, and on December 4th, Anselm, the pure and the true, was conse- 
crated Archbishop. His influence over the king was not always ineffi- 
cacious. The day after the consecration, Rufus, for the good of the soul 
of William, his father, and of Matilda, his mother, and for his own soul, pre- 
sented the advowson of Ashbourne with some other churches to the Cathe- 
dral and Bishop of Lincoln. This praiseworthy motive may have been 
furthered by other considerations. Lincoln was a new see. The Cathedral 
built by the sainted Remigius was finished and men gathered there for its 
consecration, butthree days before the time appointed forthat ceremony, May 
6, 1092, Remigius died. Now was appointed to the bishopric the king's 
friend and servant, Robert Bloet, and, perhaps both as a token of personal 
favor and also towards the endowment of the see, still in process, the king 
gave Ashbourne to Lincoln, thus blending cleverly, if not harmoniously, 
the spiritual with the friendly and the practical. Bloet held Lincoln for 
thirty years, besides being chancellor to William Rufus and justiciar under 
Henry I. Without ranking among the best of prelates, he was yet bounti- 
ful both to his church and to his poor, liberal in his manner of life and a 
friend of scholars. Both he and his successors for the next two hundred 
and fifty years seem to have got as much as was possible out of Ashbourne. 
That they needed much to enable them to maintain their state may have 



30 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

been to them some excuse, but it did not help this village. The duties 
were done by a vicar, poorly paid we do not doubt. 

It was during the incumbency of one of these vicars, Nicholas de 
Esseburne, about 1220, that, of the present building, the chancel and 
transepts were erected. Not, however, till 1241 were they consecrated. 
Then it was that Hugh de Patteshull, a Staffordshireman, lately appointed 
bishop of Coventr}^ and Lichfield, determined that the heavy drain should 
no longer be made upon Ashbourne. He bound the Dean of Lincoln to 
content himself with a small pension, and he directed that the vicar should 
have four curates and such other clergy as would ensure proper ministra- 
tions, and enable the parish to exercise becoming hospitality. Afterwards, 
May 25th, 1 241, he consecrated the church in honor of St. Oswald, king 
and martyr, as is testified by a Latin inscription on a brass tablet now kept 
in the vestry. 

Nine years after this, both church and town suffered severely from 
fire. Presumably, the older portion of the former, to which had been added 
the work of Nicholas de Esseburne, was damaged beyond repair. At this 
time John de Brecham, appointed in 1241, the year of Bishop Patteshull's 
reforms, held the vicarage, and if it be true, as is said, that he spent two 
hundred marks yearly on the parish, his generosity is apparent. Under 
his care and his immediate successors, within forty years of the consecra- 
tion, were built parts of the nave, the south aisle and the tower, and about 
1330 the spire was finished. Two hundred years later, about 1520, the 
clerestories were added to the nave and transepts. Since then little has 
been done beyond repairing the ravages of time and storm. In the be- 
ginning of the eighteenth century the nave received its present roof, the 
south transept was partly rebuilt and strengthened, and the upper part of 
the spire, previously damaged in a gale of wind, was restored. The wind, 
indeed, has played havoc with the spire. Three times within the last 
hundred and fifty years it has had to be taken down and repaired. Lately, 
the entire building has been restored ; but the work was done so carefully 
and conservatively under the supervision of the present excellent incum- 
bent, the Reverend Francis Jourdain, that the archaeologist can find no 
fault, and the lover of the churches of the past is more than satisfied. 

The advowson of Ashbourne has not been held by Lincoln uninter- 
ruptedly from the time of William Rufus to the present. In October, 1270, 
Prince Edward, son of Henry III, and afterwards himself king of England, 
was in a terrible storm off the Sicilian coast. He had purposed to wrest 
from the infidel the Land which Christendom has ever regarded as holy, 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 31 

but the violence of the tempest threatened destruction both to his fleet 
and to his hopes. So he vowed to found an abbey for the glory of God 
and the good of men's souls, were he saved. The storm passed away, and 
he had opportunity both to lift up the cross in Palestine, and to establish 
his monastery wherever he thought fit. He did both. In Cheshire he built 
on the banks of the Weaver the house known as Vale Royal, the spot 
having been selected because over it the shepherds had heard celestial 
music in the air. To maintain this house, and the sixteen gentlemen who 
should dwell therein, endowment was necessary, and, as princes did not 
always out of their own means satisfy the requirements of an expensive 
vow, some readjustment of church revenues was effected, and Ashbourne 
was taken from Lincoln and given to Vale Royal. Whether the dean and 
chapter of Lincoln approved of this transfer of their property, I do not 
know ; and, after all, reparation was not long delayed. In 1289, the year 
that Oueen Eleanor, the beloved of king and people, died, Edward I re- 
stored to Lincoln the benefice of which it had been deprived. 

It is worth while to notice the way in which the rights of parishes to 
their own endowments were set aside. The estates which were given by 
the faithful for the maintenance of divine services within a certain district, 
.or at a certain church, came to be considered by those in authority as at 
their disposal, and they granted them to whomsoever they would. Ash- 
bourne was not in the diocese of Lincoln, nor had it aught to do with Vale 
Royal : in fact, it was a parochial foundation, and its revenues were in- 
tended for the people, and not for either monks or canons ; but that made 
no difference. Something, of course, may be said for the solidarity of 
the Church, but the only reason that I can see for this appropriation to 
outside purposes of parish incomes, or, to put it more exactly, of the 
the greater tithes of a parish, is because such incomes or tithes exceeded 
the necessities of the parish. The tithes of Ashbourne came to be large — 
larger, I presume, than the place needed. And, as money never should 
be wasted, this is the reason why to-day, instead of being thrown away 
upon the Church or its clergy, they go to a lay impropriator who does not 
even live in the parish. 

An edifice, in some parts, well-nigh seven hundred years old — perhaps 
fragments of it are even older — and added to or altered at considerable 
intervals of time, necessarily displays several styles of architecture. In- 
deed, here are illustrated the three great Gothic styles, Early English, 
Decorated and Perpendicular. The building is cruciform, the length of 
the nave and chancel together, from east to west, being 175 feet, and of 



32 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

the transepts, from north to south, ioo feet. The chancel is five feet 
longer and two feet broader than the nave, and, like several other churches 
we have visited this summer, has a decided deflection towards the north. 
Someone told me that the deflection is not symbolical, that it does not 
represent the drooping head of our Saviour upon the cross, but that it was 
the result of haphazard work and had no significance. This opinion I 
cannot agree with ; nor have I ever seen a chancel deflect towards the 
south. The transepts are forty-four feet wide, and each is divided in the 
middle by arches and pillar. Double transepts of this kind are rare. The 
nave has an aisle on the south side only, thus destroying the symmetry of 
the structure, and yet not injuring its beauty or its verity. Between this 
aisle and the nave is an arcade of four arches, above the capitals of the 
pillars of which appear the heads of some of the nobles and prelates who 
have been interested in Ashbourne. On the easternmost is the head of 
Edward I and the head of his contemporary, Roger Longspee, bishop of 
Coventry and Lichfield, to whose memory history has not been over gentle. 
Formerly between the spandrels of the nave arches and on the opposite 
wall were the names and emblems of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, and on 
the west wall was a figure of St. Christopher. In the south wall of the 
aisle are the remains of a passageway leading up through the wall to a 
chamber over a porch now destroyed ; but by far the most interesting 
object in this part of the church is the font, which is coeval with the con- 
secration of the church itself. The west door, instead of being exactly 
under the great western window of the nave, is, owing to the south aisle 
and to the desire to have the altar from the entrance full in sight, placed 
so far to the south that the point of its arch almost coincides with the 
corner of the window- The view from this door up the church is very 
impressive : the only drawback being the chancel roof, which in restoration 
has been set so low that it cuts off the point of the east window. As this 
part of the restoration was done by Sir Gilbert Scott, one hesitates to say 
that the beauty of the window is thereby marred. 

And it is a beautiful window, of fine perpendicular style. Passing up 
the nave and through the space under the tower, of which more by-and- 
by, we enter the chancel there to find that in this window are the arms of 
Normandy and England, of John of Gaunt and the Duchy of Lancaster, 
and of many of the families who held lands within the honor of Tutbury. 
There are twenty of these coats, most of them, if not all, being as old as the 
stonework itself. The chancel screen, the choir-stalls and the altar, 
like the pulpit in the nave, are modern, but unlike most things modern 



WOODS AND DADES OF DERBYSHIRE. 33 

deserving of attention and praise. The piscina and the sedilla have a 
respectable antiquity, and much interest attaches itself to some of the 
monuments. The irregularity of the outline of the building appears plainly 
and not unpleasingly from the sanctuary rails. The arches and windows, 
varied in style though they are, delight the eye ; the space, by a well-known 
illusion, seems greater than it really is, and soon there come to one both 
historical reminiscences and spiritual emotions which delight the mind and 
gratify the heart. 

Here to worship came in days gone by men such as Charles I, Dr. 
Johnson and his friends Mr. Boswell and Dr. Taylor, and George Canning 
and Tom Moore. Here, too, have ministered priests worthy to be had in 
rememberance, such as Thomas Peacock, who in the times of the Great 
Rebellion suffered shamefully at the hands of the Puritans, and Samuel 
Shipley, who during an incumbency of six and forty years, held the 
affection and respect of his people. So through the centuries God's people 
have in this place received the consolations and listened to the reproofs of 
religion. On these steps have they knelt for the laying on of hands, per- 
chance to take upon themselves vows of conjugal fidelity, it may be to 
acknowledge some sin at which the congregation was offended, and again 
and again in highest sacrament to enter into communion with their Dord. 
This is a holy place, not only the gate of heaven, but also consecrated 
both by the presence of God and by the most solemn and sacred associa- 
tions. And yet it has not always been guarded from ill. There are the 
marks of bullets fired by Commonwealth men, and in the sacristy is to be 
seen a cannon ball once embedded in the tower. 

Of the transepts we turn first to the one which is least interesting, that 
on the south side. In the southwest corner near the door is a mural tab- 
let to the Rev. Samuel Shipley, vicar from 1806 to 1850 ; seventeen similar 
tablets to Ashbourne worthies are within the transepts and nave. A screen 
and pillars of Early English with decorated arches divide this transept, of 
which the eastern part is called the Chapel of St. Oswald and contains the 
sacristy, organ, and chambers for the registers and church plate. The 
parish registers date from 1538. The double piscina is of the thirteenth 
century, and that part of the transept known as the organ vestry was 
formerly the chantry founded about 1483 by John Bradbourne, a member 
of an ancient and knightly family, some of whom repose hereabouts. 
During the restoration of the church pieces of alabaster were found and 
here made into an altar. There is a fine stained window, modern, illus- 
trating the Te Deum. 



34 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

It is, however, in the north transept and in the eastern part of it, 
once known as the L,ady Chapel, that the chief interest of this church lies. 
There are the monuments of the Cokaynes and the Boothbys, successively 
lords of Ashbourne Hall. Of the former family, between 1372 and 1592, 
one member is absent: Thomas Cokayne, 1488, was buried at Youlgreave. 

The monuments are five in number, and chronologically the series begins 
with an altar-tomb of freestone and effigies in marble of John Cokayne, 
who died in 1372, and of his son Edmund, who was slain at the battle of 
Shrewsbury in 1403. The former is represented in the dress of a gentle- 
man of the period — a tunic, hip belt, long hose, and mantle loosely open 
down to his feet ; the latter appears in complete armor. Edmund was 
fortunate enough to marry Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of Sir Richard 
de Herthull, and thereby were brought into the family estates of consider- 
able extent in several midland counties. His son John was a lawyer of 
some note in his day, and from what is told of him appears to have been 
careful of the inheritance which fell to him. John became successively 
Recorder of L,ondon, chief baron, a justice of the Common Pleas and 
sheriff of the counties of Derby and Nottingham. In 141 1 he went to 
France with the military expedition sent to the aid of the Duke of Orleans 
in his struggle with the Duke of Burgundy. He was twice married ; first 
to Joan, daughter of a Hampshire knight, and secondly to Isabel, daughter 
of Sir Hugh Shirley of Warwickshire. His second wife's father was killed 
at the same battle in which his own father died. He died in 1438, and to 
his memory was erected an alabaster tomb. The Dictionary of National 
Biography states that on this tomb he was represented in a recumbent 
position, wearing his judicial robes and the coif of a sergeant, and with a 
greyhound at his feet ; and further adds that the monument no longer 
exists, though copies of it have been preserved. This is confusing, for 
the tomb to the north of that in which sleep his father and grandfather is 
pointed out as his, though the male figure thereon, if I remember aright, 
is clad rather in knightly garb than in the dress of a lawyer. The lady 
beside this effigy, commonly held to be the L,ady Joan, his first wife, wears 
a horned headdress, tight bodice and full skirts. This monument, whether 
Sir John the judge's or not, is a good piece of work. A son of Sir John 
married Agnes Vernon of Haddon Hall : he died in 1505. 

Next to this tomb, in the corner by the window, is an altar-tomb of 
Purbeck marble with an alabaster slab, on which are incised the figures of 
Sir Thomas Cokayne and Dame Barbara his wife. Sir Thomas was made 
a knight by Henry VIII at the siege of Tournay in 1513. He died in 
1537. On his tomb is this inscription : 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 35 

Here lyeth Sir Thomas Cokayne, 

Made knight at Turney and Turwyne, 

Who builded here fayre houses twayne, 

With rnanye profettes that remayne ; 

And three fayre parkes impaled he, 

For his successors here to be ; 

And did his house and name restore, 

Whiche others had decayed before ; 

And was a knight so worshipfull, 

So vertuous, wyse, and pitifull, 

His dedes deserve that his good name 

L)'ve here in everlasting fame. 

Who had issue iii sonnes iii daughters. 

His son and heir, Francis, died the next year, and to his memory and 
to that of Dorothy his wife was erected the tomb next to this one, under 
the north window. Once of great beauty and now admirably restored, it 
and its brasses deserve attention. The next possessor of the manor, 
Thomas, the son of Francis, lies outside the chapel against the north wall 
of the western part of the transept. At the age of nineteen, on the death 
of his father, in 1537, he obtained the family estates. He had been brought 
up in the house of the Karl of Shrewsbury, and through life maintained a 
close connection with the Talbots. This doubtless brought him more or 
less into contact with Bess of Hardwick, than whom no one seems to have 
a more lasting memory in Derbyshire. In 1544, on the outbreak of war, 
he was sent by Henry VIII to Scotland. There the intrigues and plottings 
of his friend and Henry's agent, Sir Ralph Sadler, against Mary of 
Lorraine, mother of Mary, afterwards Queen of Scots, had been frustrated : 
hence a cruel conflict. Thomas Cokayne distinguished himself at the tak- 
ing of Leith and Edinburgh sufficiently to receive knighthood. Many 
years later he and this same Sir Ralph Sadler — over whom Miss Strickland 
waxes indignant ever and anon— accompanied the Scottish queen, then 
Elizabeth's prisoner, in her journey from Wingfield to Tutbury. These 
were, however, exceptional services for Sir Thomas. He loved rather to 
spend his days in the country and about his own concerns. We do not 
know that he frequented the court or cared for the life or business there. 
He had more fame and authority as a hunter than as a scholar, courtier or 
knight ; and in his old age he summed up his field experiences in a book 
printed in quarto, embellished with woodcuts and entitled "A Short 
Treatise of Hunting, compyled for the Delight of Noblemen and Gentle- 
men," dating it " from my house neere Ashbourne, the last of December 



36 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

1590." It is said by one who has examined it: " This quaint little book 
concludes with directions for blowing huntsmen's horns. These are, 
Cokayne asserts, the identical measures of blowing ordered by Sir Tristram, 
King Arthur's knight, whose ' first principles of hunting, hawking, and 
blowing' are the best he knows." After his father's death his mother 
married Sir Humphrey Ferrers of Tamworth Castle, and a little later, 
about 1544, he himself married his stepfather's daughter, Dorotr^. In the 
religious changes which took place during his life he went with the reform- 
ation. He was one of the first governors, and helped with others in the 
endowment, of the Free Grammar School at Ashbourne, chartered by 
Queen Elizabeth in 1585. In 1592 he died, and in the night of November 
15, according to the custom which then and for many centuries prevailed, 
he was buried. His marble monument — which, by the way, was till 1840 
within the chapel— represents him and his wife kneeling opposite each 
other, and in a compartment below are figures of their three sons and seven 
daughters in the same posture. 

Sir Thomas had a grandson, born in 1587, of the same Christian name. 
He did not write a treatise on Hunting, but he is claimed to be the author 
of an " English- Greek Lexicon, containing the derivations and various 
significancies of all the words in the New Testament, with a complete 
index in Greek and Latin." For some cause not given he abandoned his 
wife and children at Ashbourne and hid himself, under the assumed name 
of Browne, in London. There in 1638 he died and was buried in St. Giles's 
Church. His wife, Ann, daughter of Sir John Stanhope of Elvaston, 
Derbyshire, and half-sister of Philip, first earl of Chesterfield, survived 
him and held the estate at Ashbourne until her death in 1664. The rest 
of his possessions in the meantime, and Ashbourne eventually, went to his 
eldest son, Aston, who, as the last of the lords of this manor, even though 
he is not interred here, should be noticed more fully. 

He is not one of whom much good can be said ; nevertheless he has 
some reputation as a poet and a dramatist. His verse is characterized by 
coarseness and his plays are rarely read, but from them may be gathered 
particulars of his friends and of his own life which give them a certain 
worth. He was born in 1608. Though educated at Cambridge he was 
created M. A. at Oxford. He entered one of the Inns of Court in London, 
but not so much for study as "for fashion's sake." In the summer of 
1632 he began a tour through France and Italy, which he completed in 
twelve months' space. He became a Romanist, and during the struggle 
between the King and the Parliament espoused the Royalist cause. In his 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 37 

fidelity to his religion and to his prince he never faltered. He was fined 
as a "popish delinquent," heavily and frequently, but he flinched not from 
his position. For this steadfastness he is worthy of praise. But, though 
by man}' esteemed " an ingenious gentleman, a good poet and a great lover 
of learning," to quote an old biographer, he was more generally known to 
be a boon fellow, fond of " a fine little glass ' ' ; and in the end, largely 
because of this, helped no doubt by losses suffered for the sake of his 
principles, he found himself without estate and in considerable necessity. 
In 1 67 1 he joined with his son in selling the estate at Ashbourne, and 
twelve years later he let go his last bit of land, only reserving for himself 
a small annuity for life. In the winter of 1683 he was buried beside his wife 
and only son. Thus Ashbourne passed out of a family in which it had 
continued for many ages : indeed, men know not when the Cokaynes arose. 
They were at Ashbourne in the twelfth century, and held the lordship for 
over four hundred years. 

If my reader would know something of Sir Aston Cokayne's works 
without taking the labor of searching for a copy thereof, I can tell him, 
after carefully reading the "Obstinate Lady," " Trappolin," and the 
"Tragedy of Ovid," that Sir Aston has no originality and helps little in a 
study either of language or of manners. The first of the three plays named 
is commonplace and weak, and for whatever merit it may have the author 
was indebted to Massinger's " Very Woman " and to Beaumont and Fletch- 
er's " Philaster." The plot of the second was also borrowed, but though 
in wit and humor tame and in action absurd and improbable, much of the 
dialogue is lively and with some resolution can be read. The third play 
was dedicated to Charles Cotton, Walton's scholar and Cokayne's cousin. 
Only upon the assumption that Charles Cotton's taste was out of sorts, 
temporarily and charitably perhaps, can I account for the courteous and 
generous entertainment he afforded this piece, or for his epigram upon it 

beginning : 

Long live the poet and his lovely muse, 
The stage with wit and learning to infuse ! 

and ending with the lines : 

Naso was Rome's fam'd Ovid ; you alone 
Must be the Ovid to our Albion, 
In all things equal, saving in this case, 
Our modern Ovid has the better grace. 

I would be cruel to ask anybody to take this play and from it justify 
these last two lines. What fish did the good angler hope to catch ? 

4 



38 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

The heart is saddened as in this church where so many of its mem- 
bers are buried, one thinks of the dying out of a family such as the Co- 
kaynes, a family associated with the history of Ashbourne for several 
hundred years. Sir Aston was the last male descendant of his line. That 
he did not win glory was not so much his fault as his lack of power. He 
tried for position and honor — tried, I am sure, at these sorry plays of his 
as some of his ancestors tried on the field of battle ; but the genius was 
not his. And were it not for these tombs the stranger would never hear 
of him or of his fathers. Thus the great and the mighty pass away ; and 
families powerful and honorable decline and decay, and a few monuments, 
some dust, and scattered, broken memories alone remain. 

It should, perhaps, be added that in these effigies of the Cokaynes the 
faces are depicted as severe and expressionless : a striking contrast to those 
of the family that succeeded them. The Cokayne arms were three cocks, 
and the crest was a cock or a cock's head. In the same chapel are memo- 
rials to some of the Bradburnes of I,ea — a village beyond Wirks worth, and 
on the other side of the Derwent, about fifteen miles from Ashbourne. One 
of these is an altar-tomb upon which are the recumbent figures cut in ala- 
baster of Sir Humphrey Bradburne, died 1 58 1, and Lady Elizabeth, his 
wife. On the sides of the tomb are figures of their children : nine sons 
and six daughters. 

From the Cokaynes the lordship of Ashbourne went to the Boothbys, 
and of them several are buried in this chapel. To this family belonged 
Miss Hill Boothby, one of Dr. Johnson's correspondents and friends — with 
whom, indeed, though she read her Bible in Hebrew, that great man had 
such familiarity that he addressed her as his " dearest dear," his " sweet 
angel," and assures her not only that his "heart is full of tenderness," 
but also that " he has none other on whom his heart reposes." That she 
was worthy of his friendship is evident from the letters which she wrote 
him, in which enthusiastic piety, clear common sense, scholar^ refinement 
and commendable vivacity are happily mingled. In her Johnson discov- 
ered a similarity of tastes in learning and in religion, which could not fail 
to attract him : even though gossips spoke of him as antiquated and of her 
as sublimated. Unhappily the intimacy was of brief duration. Three 
years from its beginning she died, in 1756, about the age of forty-seven. 
Dr. Johnson carefully treasured her letters, and composed a prayer in which 
he thanked God for the opportunity of instruction afforded him ' ' by the 
knowledge of her life and by the sense of her death." In this prayer, as a 
result of her example, occurs this fine sentence, noble and finished both in 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 39 

shape and in sentiment : I implore thy grace ' ' that I may consider the 
uncertainty of my present state, and apply myself earnestly to the duties 
which thou hast set before me, that, living in thy fear, I may die in thy 
favour." Her nephew, Sir Brooke Boothby, told well the story of her beau- 
tiful life in lines that are worth reading : 

Could beauty, learning, talents, virtue, save 

From the dark confines of th' insatiate grave, 

This frail memorial had not ask'd a tear 

O'er Hill's cold ashes, sadly mouldering here. 

Friendship's chaste flame her ardent bosom fired, 

And bright religion all her soul inspired : 

Her soul, too heavenly for an house of clay, 

Soon wore its earth-built mansion to decay. 

In the last struggles of departing breath, 

She saw her Saviour gild the bed of death ; 

Heard His mild accents, tun'd to peace and love, 

Breathe a blest welcome to the realms above ; 

To those bright regions, that celestial shore, 

Where friends long lost shall meet to part no more, 

" Blest Lord, I come ! my hopes have not been vain : " 

Upon her lifeless cheek extatic smiles remain. 

There is an alabaster monument to Sir Brooke Boothby, the brother of 
this lady, who died 1789, and Phoebe his wife, 1788. They left an only 
daughter named Maria Elizabeth, who deceased in 1805, a little over forty- 
seven years old. The following lines are inscribed on the end of her tomb, 
and though in grace and spirit inferior to those just quoted, I give them. 

Chaste earth within thy hallow'd breast 
Let these sad relics peaceful rest : 
The mortal spoils, an angel mind, 
Mounting to heaven, has left behind ; 
Her bosom pure as virgin snow, 
Did with each mild affection glow ; 
Almost from human frailties free, 
Yet boundless was her charity ; 
The sense in her that brightly shone, 
Seem'd to her modest self unknown. 
Reader, no poet's pencil drew 
This portrait : it is simply true. 
O All-belov'd ! the general woe 
Thy universal worth may show ; 
And O, too soon united here 
With parents to thy bosom dear, 



4o WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Sleep by a well-lov'd mother's side, 
In life her chiefest joy and pride ! 
Sister, farewell ; nor time nor place 
Maria's memory shall efface ; 
Thy brothers who inscribe this stone, 
With their last sigh thy loss shall mourn. 

No one can read epitaphs such as these and not obtain some idea 01 
the refinement, affection and piety which prevailed in this family. "All 
the inscriptions," says a local authority, " whether in English or Latin, 
indicate literary taste and talent, a regard for virtue, and a sensitiveness of 
disposition." Both the ladies spoken of in these lines appear to have been 
worthy of all that is said of them ; and were they not, yet the lines them- 
selves have a tenderness and a beauty, rare enough in such poetry, that 
speak well not only for him who wrote them, but also for those who used 
them. 

This character was maintained by Sir Brooke Boothby, the brother of 
the lady to whose memory the latter lines were written, and the nephew of 
her who was Dr. Johnson's friend, He was, indeed, in his young days 
spoken of "as one of those wno think themselves pretty gentlemen du 
premier ordre ; ' ' but later, better things were known of him than this 
judgment suggests. Not only did he move in circles to which belonged 
people such as Miss Seward, Dr. Erasmus Darwin, Thomas Day and the 
Edgeworths, but he also was the author of several books. Among other 
things he defended some features of the French Revolution, and sought to 
vindicate Rousseau's character and work from the "wanton, butcherly 
attack ' ' made by Burke. During a prolonged residence in France he 
became intimate with Rousseau. Earlier than this — from the spring of 
1766 to the May of 1767 — Jean Jacques, then a refugee in England, much 
to Dr. Johnson's disgust, had been entertained at Wootton Hall by a Mr. 
Davenport, having been introduced there by the historian Hume. Wootton, 
about five miles from Ashbourne, is in a cheerless neighborhood, bleak and 
lonely, as a local epigram runs : 

Wootton under Weaver, where God came neever. 

But Rousseau liked it. Said he : "It has been freezing ever since I 
came here ; it has snowed incessantly ; the wind cuts the face. In spite of 
all this I would rather live in a hole of one of the rabbits of this warren 
than in the finest room in London." Here the " Apostle of Affliction " 
began his " Confessions," and here, being, to use Hume's expression, like 




£1 
'J 






o 
U 



£> 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 41 

Richard Cumberland, the Sir Fretful Plagiary of Sheridan's Critic, a man 
born without a skin, his sensitiveness led him to quarrel with some of his 
best friends. I do not know whether Boothby met him here, but, like 
Boswell, he thought much of his society, and considered him to be a much 
better man than did most people. Many years afterwards there used to 
come to Ashbourne Hall another of the baronet's friends, the statesman 
and orator, George Canning. Those were the days of the stage-coach, as 
Canning reminds us: 

So down thy slope, romantic Ashbourne, glides 
The Derby Dilly, carrying six insides. 

Boothby contributed to the "Anti-Jacobin," partly edited by Canning. 
He was eighty years old when, in 1823, he died — the last of his line. He 
was buried in Ashbourne Church, and another family holds the manor. 

To Sir Brooke Boothby and Susannah his wife came a life's sorrow. 
It is not without purpose that I have lingered in this chapel, or that I have 
copied the inscriptions given a page or two back : perhaps I have created 
some interest in the lords of Ashbourne. Nor is it without reason that I 
have left to the last the most interesting, as well as the most beautiful and 
pathetic, of all the memorials. Of this memorial, before I came into the 
church I read : "The man whom this does not affect wants one of the finest 
sources of genuine sensibility ; his heart cannot be formed to relish the 
beauty either of nature or of art. ' ' The cloth was not taken off the tomb 
in the southwest corner till I had seen all else in the chapel : after that I 
could no more think of warrior-chiefs or gentle squires. 

There, sculptured out of the purest Carrara marble, on a couch lies the 
figure of a lovely female child, a poet's ideal of purity and innocence. No 
wonder when the queen of George III and her daughters saw this marvel- 
lous piece of art and read in it the story of suffering and of woe, they burst 
into tears. It is the finest work of Thomas Banks and is to the memory 
of Penelope, the only child of Sir Brooke and Lady Boothby. She died in 
1 79 1, not quite six years old. The artist has represented her extended on 
her right side, her feet, carelessly folded over each other, appearing 
beneath her gracefully flowing dress, the only drapery. She has fallen 
asleep, wearied with the restlessness and the fever, her cheek resting on the 
crumpled pillow and her hands, tenderly touching each other, drawn up 
towards her face as if to support her worn and weakened frame. Much 
has she suffered, poor little innocent ! and in her wan, yet beautiful and 
gentle face, shaded by the curling golden locks, appear the lines of pain. 



42 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Her slumber is but troubled and broken. As you look upon her closed 
eyes and folded arms, you fancy that in another minute she will wake up 
and throw herself about to find a fresh position. Never has artist told a 
story so naturally and so simply, and therefore so appealingly, as this. 
The heart throbs, the tear falls, and to the soul comes a great calm. Nor 
does one readily turn from the conception to observe the exquisite finish of 
detail, the master- workmanship which brings out, delicately and truly, 
the very fringe of the sash around the waist, the pleats of the dress and 
the dents of the mattress, to say nothing of the figure itself. The pedestal 
is worthy of so choice a burden. 

Upon the tomb are inscriptions in English, French, Italian and Latin. 
Of these the two following sufficiently set forth the character of her who 
is thus commemorated, and the love and sorrow of those who mourned her 
loss. The graceful Italian runs : 

Le - crespe - chiome - d'or - puro - lucente - 
E'l - lampecciar - dell - angelico - riso - 
Che - solean - far - in - terra - un - paradiso - 
Poca - poluere - son - che - nulla - sente. 

These words have been translated : ' ' Thy curling locks of pure shining 
gold, the lightning of thy angelic smile, which used to make a paradise 
on earth, are now become only a little senseless dust." 

On the opposite side of the tomb appears an epitaph in English, the 
first line being taken from the Book of Job : 

" I was not in safety, neither had I rest, and the trouble came." 

To Penelope, 

Only Child of Sir Brooke Boothby and Dame Susannah Boothby, 

Born April nth, 1785 ; Died March 13th, 1791. 

She was in form and intellect most exquisite. 

The unfortunate Parents ventured their all on this frail Bark, 

and the wreck was total. 

Sadly grieved the father and mother over the death of this comely 
and promising child. The former expressed his sorrow in a book of poems, 
which he entitled the " Sorrows of Penelope." Sir Joshua Reynolds pre- 
served her features on canvas. She was worthy of it all. And yet one 
cannot but hope that the bereaved parents found that the wreck was not 
total. The Christian who has stood beside this tomb and taken in all 
its meaning — that beautiful, suffering child ; the translation of the life 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 43 

evanescent to the land of the life everlasting — while he may sympathize 
with the sorrow, must needs realize the consciousness of better things 
beyond, the joy of immortality and the glory of resurrection. 

In one of the windows are some bits of ancient glass : religious devices 
and coats-of arms. By the door are some Saxon and Norman fragments. 
The north wall has an aumbrie. But as we pass through the screen-door 
out of the place, we feel that little Penelope in her sweet innocence hallows 
the place more than all else. It is said that before Chantrey began his 
celebrated sculpture of the Sleeping Children in Lichfield Cathedral he 
came to this tomb, and here in silence and in reverence sought to win in- 
spiration from the masterpiece of his great predecessor. I am not sur- 
prised that Chantrey' s work has received the world's highest laudation. 

Before the restoration there were galleries in this church. There was 
also the old-fashioned "three-decker" — pulpit, reading-pew and clerk's 
stall. In the galleries used to sit the plainer folk, and not a few boys and 
girls. One of my friends, whose name went on the register of baptisms at 
Ashbourne ever so many years ago, and whose love for and acquaintance 
with his native town has not been intermitted — though now his home is 
between the Delaware and the Schuylkill, — tells me a story of these gal- 
leries which illustrates country-life. Decorous and orderly as Anglican 
churches are nowadays, it should be remembered they were not always 
so. Charles II enjoyed watching the maids of honor giggle as his chap- 
lain read a certain second lesson ; and here and there we find benevolent 
people subscribed or bequeathed money to pay for a beadle to walk about 
the church, and keep the worshippers awake and attentive. In one place 
this official was furnished with a wand, at one end of which was a knob, 
and at the other a fox's tail. With the former he sharply wrapped on the 
head of the men or boys who chanced to drop asleep, and with the latter 
he tickled under the nose such of the women and girls who might be 
guilty of a like indiscretion. Even then it was not always possible to 
enforce that respect which becomes the house of God. Frequently a 
churchwarden would take the wand which used to be placed at the door 
of his pew, thereby marking his position and dignity, and, preceded by the 
beadle and followed by the village constable, possibly by the parish clerk 
in top-boots, strut solemnly down the alley to the delinquent. As a 
churchwarden's powers are extensive, peace generally ensued ; most likely 
punishment also. Women occasionally were churchwardens, and parish 
clerks and overseers ; but I do not know that any of these offices thereby 
lost its authority. I should, however, dearly love to see a female church- 



44 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

warden deal with an unruly boy during service. So much was done in 
olden time to maintain order that one fancies the evil must have been very 
great. Indeed, bishops charged the clergy to observe those who " unrev- 
erently use [z. <?., misbehave] themselves in the time of divine service ; " 
and acts of parliament were passed to remedy the wrong. Everybody, ot 
course, went to church. Sir Roger de Coverley used to stand up when the 
rest of the people were on their knees, to count the congregation, or to 
see if any of his tenants were missing. People were fined if they did not 
attend worship — a praiseworthy, if unhappy, effort of the State to make 
its citizens perform their duty. When a man chanced to get excommuni- 
cated he was not able to comply with the law. Once an individual, labor- 
ing under this penalty, ventured into his parish church : to be exact, the 
place was Scotter, Lincolnshire; the time, January 19, 1667. "Being 
admonished by mee to begon," wrote the rector in the register, "he 
obstinately refused." Nobody seemed strong enough to put him out, and 
so the congregation broke up and went home. The Oxford movement has 
altered all this, and has brought about that order which now distinguishes 
Anglican places of worship and excites the emulation of people of other 
religious bodies. Perhaps the tendency to sleep is less, too. But this bit 
is delightful: "As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he 
keeps them in very good order, and will suffer no body to sleep in it be- 
sides himself ; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at 
sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and 
if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his 
servant to them." Addison adds : " I was yesterday much surprised to 
hear my old friend in the midst of the service calling out to one John 
Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. 
This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and 
at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion." 

Now between fifty and sixty years ago there were those at Ashbourne 
who, like Eutychus, and perhaps from the same cause, could not keep 
awake. There are still clergymen after the kind spoken of by Sydney 
Smith, who preach " as if sin were to be taken out of man like Eve out of 
Adam— by putting him to sleep. " On a certain Sunday an Ashbourne 
man of some standing and years— a plump, broadfaced, comfortable sort 
of individual, to whom nature and society had been very kind, as might 
be seen by his healthy-colored nose and mutton-chop whiskers — this man, 
I say, who ought to have known better, followed the example of other 
worthy folk around him. The back of his pew was in a line with the 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 45 

gallery front, and, when he dropped off, his head fell back, leaving his 
mouth wide open. A boy in the gallery, peeping over, saw the yawning 
depth beneath. Had it not been for that boy, this good, respectable man 
might have gone to his grave without a blemish upon his name. But 
Fate put that bo3' there, and Fate gave him an opportunity which he was 
not slow to avail himself of. In his pocket he found a good-sized bit of 
liquorice ; also a long piece of string. To the end of the string he attached 
the sweetmeat. Then gently lowering the black dainty lump over the 
gallery, he began bobbing for that respectable man's mouth. Other boys 
watched the process, not unexcitedly you may be sure. The delicate 
drone of the sermon went on : the bobbing continued. It was not easy to 
strike the exact spot ; but as perseverance is always crowned with success, 
except when a hen tries to hatch a porcelain egg, at last plump into the 
good man's mouth went the liquorice. Trouble began at once. Up sprang 
the slumberer, snorting and choking : joyously tittered the urchins who 
saw the fun. A youth in the pew behind caught the string as it fell : he 
pulled it, but the mouth in which was the other end had closed, and the 
merriment became exasperating. Everybody waked up to see what the 
matter was ; even the clergyman stopped. What happened to the boy 
who caused this excitement, whether he got punished at the time or lived 
to grow up a quiet and harmless member of society, I have never learned. 
But he who told me the story, then a boy himself, and even now with 
as happy a twinkle in his eye as ever boy had, suffered. He had seen 
the whole proceeding ; and when the startled townsman jumped up, he 
could not refrain from expressing his satisfaction. For him it was unfor- 
tunate. 

There was some excuse perhaps for the good man who thus misbe- 
haved. The preacher was of the soporific kind — and when one considers 
how useful in curing insomnia such men are, one should not hastilj'- con- 
demn them. Some voices, too, have a drowsy monotony about them that 
is unfailing. Such was his who at this time officiated at Ashbourne : a 
good man and greatly beloved, as I have said elsewhere, one who readily 
and frequently from the joint on his own table sent a cut to one or another 
of his poor and sick parishioners, but for all that one of those preachers 
who, taking a manuscript sermon, address a pillar down the nave, gener- 
ally the last but one, and expect the congregation to listen to what is said 
to the immovable stone. If some took a nap nobody was to blame. Even 
the clerk on one occasion lost himself. When the hum overhead ceased 
for an unduly long interval, he suddenly woke up, and, thinking the 



46 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

sermon had ended and he had neglected to punctuate the ascription, sprang 
to his feet and solemnly and sonorously sang Amen. The parson looked 
over the pulpit cushion at him, very much as a rook looks at a worm he 
has succeeded in pulling half out of the ground —especially if on the said 
rook were a pair of spectacles and a set of white bands. 

This same clergyman was greatly inconvenienced by the aspirate. 
He was a master of the Latin tongue and had learned to correct his own 
moral faults, but the spiritus asper of the English language was beyond 
him. When he recognized the difficulty — which was not until it was too 
late to remedy it — he cast around for arguments to justify his unfortunate 
propensity, finally satisfying himself either that it was the old English 
way of emphasizing the important vowel-word in a sentence, or that it 
was a survival of the influence the French language had had upon the 
English speech. Unhappily for him Tom Moore was living at Mayfield, 
about a mile and a half from Ashbourne, and he attended service here. 
Tom, as they who love him know, was a kind-hearted fellow, but he had 
not a little spice of mischief about him. Do what he would, the fun would 
out ; and this was his opportunity. He quickly detected the parson's 
weakness, and one day he wrote on a flyleaf of a hymn-book the following 

lines : 

Our Vicar prays he may inerit 
The Hinspiration of the Sperit. 
Oh ! grant him also 'oly Lord 
The Haspiration of Thy Word. 

The tower of the church springs from the intersection of the chancel 
and nave with the western transepts. This would almost imply that 
the eastern parts of the transepts, the Chapels of St. Oswald and of our 
Lady, were additions to the building. The appearance of the tower and 
the spire is exceedingly graceful. The cross surmounting the latter is 
212 feet from the ground. The peal consists of eight bells, upon which 
are the following inscriptions : 

i. Give no offence to the Church. 

2. William Dobson, Founder, Downham, Norfolk. 1815. 

3. William Dobson, fecit, Downham, Norfolk. 1815. 

4. Peace and good neighborhood. 

5. Prosperity to the Town of Ashburn. 1815. 

6. The order for this peal was given in May, 1815, by Saml. Carrington and Jno. 

Tunnicliffe, churchwardens. 

7. Cast in the year 1815, in which the great battle of Waterloo was fought. 

8. These bells were completed in August, 1815 — John Hobson and Thos. Hart- 

well, churchwardens. 



WOODS AND DADES OF DERBYSHIRE. 47 

The bells which were taken down in 1815 had these dates and mottoes : 

1. Amici multi numerantur. 1705. 

2. Sweetly to ring men do call 

To taste on meats, that feed the soul. 1632. 

3. God save our Queen. 1590. 

4. Ecce Ancilla Domini. 

5. God save the Church. 

6. Ut tuba sic sonitu Domini convoco cohortes. 1592. 

Among the curious bequests to this church was one by a pious and 
musical soul, Elizabeth Buxton, who desired that "a solemn peal of 
bells ' ' should be rung every year on the anniversary of her death. She 
would not hear the tones as they floated in melancholy melody over her 
grave, but others would, and perchance they would remember how once 
she had loved to listen to them. Nor is it easy to forget such music. Even 
John Bunyan could not help bringing his pilgrims into the Celestial City 
after the fashion that great folks were on earth welcomed into towns and 
villages : ' ' Then I heard in my dream that all the bells in the city rang 
again for joy." But Dame Elizabeth was not anxious, much as she loved 
the bells, that the ringers should break the Fourth Commandment. With 
commendable consideration she directed that if her anniversary fell on a 
Sunday, the desired peal should be given on the following day. 

The present bells have a wondrous, soul-touching sweetness. He 
who has heard them will remember them forever. It was after a talk with 
Father Prout that there came fresh the memory of a quiet and beautiful 
eventide, when the Ashbourne bells were sending their rich changing 
tones far across the country side, and Tom Moore, tenderly sad, wrote of 
them the well-loved lines : 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth and home, and that sweet time, 
When last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 't will be when I am gone — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 



48 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Good Father Prout, the playful imp, contends in his Reliques that his 
brother-bard stole the idea from that other song of the bells which Mahony 
himself composed, the refrain of which can never lose its charm. " Any 
one can see," merrily argues the Father, "that he only rings a few 
changes on my Roman ballad, cunningly shifting the scene as far north as 
he could, to avoid detection. He deserves richly to be sent on a hurdle to 
Siberia." The first stanza only can I venture to give, and that purely 
because of its beauty : 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shaudon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee ; 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

On leaving for England one of the last things I was told was : "Be 
sure and hear the Ashbourne bells. " I do not wonder my friend thought 
of these bells. In the Reliques just referred to it is said : ' ' There is nothing, 
after all, like the associations which early infancy attaches to the well- 
known and long-remembered chimes of our parish-steeple : and no magic 
can equal the effect on our ear when returning after long absence in foreign 
and perhaps happier countries. ; ' But while nothing can be truer than this, 
yet most assuredly the bells of Ashbourne are in themselves all that heart 
can wish. 

Besides the bequest of Mistress Buxton for "a solemn peal of bells," 
other kind-hearted folks have sought at various times to benefit the parish. 
Money was left by some to buy Bibles for the poor ; by some for sermons, 
especially sermons for the preparation of the people for Holy Communion ; 
by some for the indigent to provide bread, coals, potatoes or gowns ; and by 
others towards raising a stock to set poor people on work. In 1630 was 
founded a lectureship " for the maintenance of an able, pious and orthodox 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 49 

preacher, who should preach two sermons or divinity lectures in Ashbourne, 
or in some other convenient town in Derbyshire, not above five miles from 
Ashbourne." Care was also taken for the market cross and the common 
well. One charitable man shrewdly desired the vicar to preach a sermon , and 
set forth his and his brothers' charity, " to stir up the charity of others." 
And with a soul full of enthusiasm another individual left five marks to 
buy a copy of Foxe's Acts and Monuments, better known perhaps as the 
Book of Martyrs ; the same to be laid safe in some convenient place in the 
parish church. 

By the way, this last bequest, the like of which is of common occur- 
rence, has about it some interest. Here and there in the old churches may 
be seen a copy of the famous work, though I fear that nowadays few 
people care to brush from it the mildew and the dust which the generations 
have accumulated. And yet an old book has a charm which a new book 
cannot possibly have. I can read three or four of the melancholy and 
bitter pages' of Master John Foxe's Acts and Monuments out of my folio 
edition of 1684 with a patience I could not exercise over a modern reprint. 
There is a musty smell, a ghostly touch and a weird ' suggestiveness that 
only two hundred years at least can give to a book, and though Master 
John is apt to curdle the blood and arouse angry feelings, yet one must 
needs be grateful for the woodcuts and plates in which are depicted, as 
only the artists of old could depict them, those kindly instruments by 
which, and those thrilling scenes in which, both Protestants and Catholics 
three hundred years ago sought to win their respective opponents into the 
right way. The illustrations afforded amusement as well as instruction. 
The dying words of the martyrs were printed on narrow slips of paper 
out of their mouths, and Cartwright in the Ordinary (Act I, Scene III) 
makes one of his characters exclaim : 

Become a martyr, and be pictur'd 
With a long label out o' your mouth, like those 
In Fox's book ; just like a juggler drawing 
Riband out of his throat. 

In olden time not only were archbishops, bishops and archdeacons enjoined 
to have in their houses a cop}' of the Book of Martyrs, but, in common 
with Bishop Jewel's Defence of the Apology of the Church of England 
and Erasmus's Paraphrase upon the Gospels, for the benefit of the poorer 
clergy and the people, a copy was placed in the parish churches, sometimes 
' ' tyed with a chay ne to the Egle brass. ' ' By this means was kept fresh 



50 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

the gruesome story of religious persecution, and thence came much of the 
material which has kept Latimer's candle burning to this hour. Arch- 
bishop L,aud, before his own head was taken off, wisely ordered John's 
book out of the churches : why in the house of God should men's souls 
be vexed and embittered by stories colored and shaded, unjustly and 
cruelly, with horrors which are characteristic, not of a school of thought 
or of a religious community, but of the age itself? Nevertheless, as the 
Papists sent Cranmer to the stake, so did the Puritans send Laud to the 
scaffold. The best time now to read Foxe is by one's self toward the mid- 
night hour. Draw close the heavy curtains, let the fire on the hearth burn 
slowly out, forget the changes of time, and by the light of a single taper 
turn over the heavy leaves. Then, the world being still and fancy some- 
what free, the thoughts go back to days when men were not afraid to 
stand alone and suffer, and not unlikely, in spite of the strange, uncanny 
feeling which passes over one in shivering waves, in the dreams which 
follow and the scenes which flit before the mind, all will not be unsavory 
or sad. I greatly wonder if Paul Taylor, who left this bequest to Ash- 
bourne Church, had ever read Lyly's Euphues or Sidney's Arcadia. A 
little of either author goes a long way ; but one or the other should be 
chained to the same lectern that holds the Book of Martyrs. Lest it 
should be thought that we are worse than our fathers, it should be remem- 
bered that as early as 1583, exactly twenty years after the publication of 
Foxe's work, John Stubbes lamented the neglect by his generation of the 
Acts and Monuments. It is not every bod}'- who can enjoy Foxe. 

Before we go from the churchyard we traverse the Vicar's walk from 
one end to the other. Again the shower breaks upon us, but we tarry to 
read inscriptions on tombstones and to take in the beauty of the church. 
Beside one grave is a white rosebush ; its one faded, rusty bud is scarcely 
less suggestive than are the marble monuments or the lichen-covered slabs. 
As from beneath the trees we watched it, the rain stopped, a sunbeam fell 
upon it, and we went on our way. 

Just outside of the churchyard, and on the north side of Church Street, 
is the Grammar School, chartered by Queen Elizabeth, and endowed by 
the contributions of many worthy townsmen, including, as we have seen, 
Sir Thomas Cokayne. It is a pleasant-looking building, with its quaint 
gables and neatly-shaped windows ; and much has been done in it for the 
education of the youth of this neighborhood. The seal of the corporation 
is an elaborate and noteworthy affair. In it two scenes are represented : 
the upper one, in which four or five of her liege subjects are petitioning 




o 

o 
a 

»J! 

<-> 
tS 

B 

E 

BS 
© 



A 
(ft 

PES 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 51 

Queen Elizabeth to grant the charter ; the lower one, in which the school 
is being founded. Her Majesty's face differs much from the portraits of 
her generally known, and her toes are strikingly prominent ; but one's 
fullest sympathies go out to the two little scholars who are sitting on a form 
before a great company of black-robed masters. Around the seal is the 
device : ' ' Sigillum L-iberse Scholae Grammaticalis Elizabethan Reginae 
Angliae in villa de Ashburne in comitatum Derbiae. ' ' Any boy who is 
happy enough to get that seal affixed to his certificate of proficiency or 
good behavior is surely made for life. 

But what is Ashbourne School to you or to me, dear reader, except 
that the headmaster thereof, the Reverend Mr. Langley, was in his day 
an acquaintance of that grand old man, Dr. Johnson ? It was in the sum- 
mer of 1777 that Dr. Johnson and Bos well visited in this place that 
" wealthy beneficed clergyman," Dr. John Taylor, and the two Ashbourne 
gentlemen, who themselves differed mightily from each other, had many 
a dispute with the sturdy lexicographer. Langley was a Rupert of debate, 
and his wild and furious manner is said to be traditional in Fenny Bentley, 
of which place he was rector, to this day. Johnson's ability in this respect 
is well known. Taylor ' ' roared ' ' as lustily as either of them. Together the 
three were well calculated to make glasses jingle and to disturb the serenity 
of Taylor's upper servant, Mr. Peters, "a decent, good man,'' observes 
Boswell, "in purple clothes and large, white wig, like the butlei or major- 
domo of a bishop. ' ' 

Dr. Taylor's house was on the opposite side of the way, and a right 
gracious establishment he maintained, for not only had he here a patri- 
mony of some worth, but he was also rector of Market Bosworth and 
prebendary of Westminster. In his house no scantiness appeared. He 
was generous and hospitable ; "his size, figure, countenance and manner 
were those of a hearty English squire with the parson superinduced." 
His violence, especially when his whiggery was disturbed, threw him into 
considerable distress, but he seems on the whole to have been as dull and 
heavy as were the extraordinarily large cattle he reared on his farm, and 
which he showed to his guests with great delight. Said Dr. Johnson to 
Boswell: "Taylor was a very sensible, acute man, and had a strong 
mind : that he had great activity in some respects, and yet such a sort of 
indolence, that if you should put a pebble upon his chimney-piece, you 
would find it there in the same state a year afterwards." In like confi- 
dential manner Taylor expressed to the Scotchman his opinion of Dr. 
Johnson : " He is a man of a very clear head, great power of words, and a 



5 2 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

very gay imagination ; but there is no disputing with him. He will not 
hear you, and having a louder voice than you, must roar you down." So 
different from each other were the two men that Boswell wondered at their 
preservation of intimacy, and Dr. Johnson did indeed get weary of the 
uniformity of life at Ashbourne ; but it is next to certain that he wrote 
sermons for Taylor, and once he said : "Taylor is better acquainted with 
my heart than any man or woman now alive. ' ' They had been at school 
and college together and had, therefore, known each other from boyhood. 
Both characters, however, appear in Dr. Johnson's words to Boswell one 
Sunday at Ashbourne: " Sir, I love him ; but I do not love him more; 
my regard for him does not increase. As it is said in the Apocrypha, 
' his talk is of bullocks. ' I do not suppose he is fond of my company. 
His habits are by no means sufficiently clerical : this he knows that I see, 
and no man likes to live under the eye of perpetual disapprobation." 

Dr. Johnson and Boswell had that day been to church, and the chapter 
in Ecclesiasticus, to which the former made allusion, was the first lesson 
at Evensong. ' ' The whole chapter, ' ' Boswell remarks, ' ' may be read as 
an admirable illustration of the superiority of cultivated minds over the 
gross and illiterate." I venture to quote three verses : 

"The wisdom of a learned man cometh by opportunity of leisure: and he that 
hath little business shall become wise. 

" How can he get wisdom that holdeth the plough, and that glorieth in the goad, 
that driveth oxen, and is occupied in their labours, and whose talk is of bullocks ? 

" He giveth his mind to make furrows ; and is diligent to give the kine fodder." 

It was impossible for Dr. Johnson altogether to refrain from striking 
heavily his ox-loving friend. Two instances may be offered. Taylor, 
who praised everything of his own to excess, in short, " whose geese were 
all swans," as the proverb says, expatiated on the excellence of his bull- 
dog, which he declared was " perfectly well shaped." Dr. Johnson, after 
examining the animal attentively, replied, " No, sir, he is not well shaped ; 
for there is not the quick transition from the thickness of the fore-part, to 
the tenuity — the thin part — behind, which a bull-dog ought to have." 
Taylor said, " a small bull- dog was as good as a large one ;" to which John- 
son retorted, ' ' No, sir ; for in proportion to his size, he has strength ; and 
your argument would prove that a good bull-dog may be as small as a 
mouse." 

On another occasion Taylor excused his nose bleeding on the ground 
that he had overgone his customary quarterly bloodletting. Dr. Johnson 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 53 

» 

disapproved of periodical bleeding, and advised the use of other means of 
purifying or reducing to health the body. " But," said Taylor, " I do not 
like to take an emetic, for fear of breaking some small vessel." " Poh ! " 
exclaimed Johnson, "if you have so many things that will break, you 
had better break your neck at once, and there's an end on't." Then, 
blowing with high derision, he added, "You will break no small vessels." 

Only once did Boswell hear this heavy parson say anything witty, 
and that was an observation concerning Rochester, which I shall not re- 
peat, though, as Dr. Johnson thought Prior was a lady's book and held 
that no lady was ashamed of having it in her library, I ma)' be deemed 
unduly squeamish. I have no doubt Taylor considered his joke a good 
one. Still, with all his faults, he was warm-hearted, forgiving and liberal. 
His popularity in Ashbourne arose as much from his good qualities as 
from his generosity to the poor of the parish. 

While Dr. Johnson was at Ashbourne he naturally attracted much 
attention. Men loved his fearlessness while they dreaded his rebuke and 
winced under his denunciation. He cared little for the golden-nobbed cane 
which Iyangle}^ received, in common with his assistant masters, from the 
bequest of the good man who loved John Foxe. He was an intellectual 
and a moral Elijah, and stood not in awe either of Ahab or of the people. 
Many an evening others beside the head master of the Grammar School 
met with him under the hospitable roof-tree of Dr. Taylor, and in the com- 
pany of "good, civil gentlemen" much wisdom came to light and wit 
sparkled freely. He claimed to be insensible to the power of music, though 
one night he gave patient attention to some friends who entertained the 
company with a number of tunes on the fiddle. When Boswell told him 
that music frequently produced in his mind either pathetic dejection so 
that he was ready to shed tears, or daring resolution so that he was inclined 
to rush into the thickest part of the battle, "Sir," he said, " I should 
never hear it, if it made me such a fool." But much as one would like to 
have been present at the gatherings in Dr. Taylor's house, and to hear the 
arguments upon social or literary questions which came up, still more does 
one wish for the privilege which Boswell so richly enjoyed of personal and 
private conversation with this master. Together they talked, now in front 
of the blazing fire, now in the doctor's bed-chamber, again in this street 
through which we are walking, and not unfrequently in the garden on the 
sloping bank at the back of the Grammar School. They who choose to 
turn over the pages of the Life which refer to this visit at Ashbourne will 
find many a sentence which should be remembered forever. None can 
5 



54 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

forget his reply when Bos well, referring to a certain house and park mag- 
nificently appointed, said, "One should think that the proprietor of all 
this must be happy:" "Nay, sir," answered the wise man, "all this 
excludes but one evil — poverty. ' ' Nor will many fail to sympathize with 
the opinion expressed that serene autumn night, when, in Dr. Taylor's 
garden, the discourse turned to the subject of a future state, and Johnson 
fell into a placid and benignant frame of mind : "Sir," said he, in a gentle 
tone, " I do not imagine that all things will be made clear to us immedi- 
ately after death, but that the ways of Providence will be explained to us 
very gradually." 

The house remains, but the men who made it famous have gone. 
L,angley no more shouts the cry of argumentative triumph ; Taylor no 
longer talks of his farm and his cows ; Johnson has lost forever the fear of 
death. In those days, when the shadows were thickening around the great 
philosopher and poet, his mighty soul grew even stronger and grander. 
His servant brought him a note ; as he opened it he said : ' ' An odd thought 
strikes me : we shall receive no letters in the grave." When the physician 
told him that recovery was next to impossible, "then," cried he, "I will 
take no more physic, not even my opiate ; for I have prayed that I may 
render up my soul to God unclouded." They buried him in Westminster, 
and over his remains Dr. Taylor read the funeral service. 

Farther along the street are some almshouses — neat structures and 
having about them a touch of that antiquity which always charms. Ash- 
bourne is well supplied with such homes for the poor. In the days when 
Charles the First and his Parliament were struggling with each other, eight 
of these houses were built by one family, and before the century was out 
another benefactor edified six more. Ten or twelve years later ten addi- 
tional cottages, and also " four neat and pretty houses " for clergymen's 
widows, were erected ; and then came a schoolhouse for thirty poor boys, 
and another schoolhouse for thirty poor girls who were to learn to sew, 
knit and read — necessary accomplishments in those days. All this speaks 
well for the Ashbournians of bygone ages. 

The street, and indeed most of the town, has an atmosphere and an 
appearance of the old time, and with one or two exceptions the modern 
buildings keep close to the traditional style of the place. There is a rest- 
fulness and an easiness of life which carry one away from the jostling rush 
and unseemly turmoil of these latter days, and enable one again to see the 
years when the quoit rang under the elm trees, and yeomen in trunkhose 
and jerkin sent the arrow whizzing to the butts. Could anything be more 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 55 

delightful than these narrow lanes which, beginning near the Green Man, 
lead up into the market-place ? See the poulterer's shop at the bottom. 
Pretty picture that, of the woman in neat print dress and straw hat, 
and the toddling child, rosy-faced and clean-clad, clinging to her skirts ! 
Over the edge of her basket may be seen the tail of a pheasant and the 
feet of a rabbit. The seller of game, to whom she is talking, a genial, 
comfortable- looking man, judging from his blushes and smiles, has much 
admiration for her good looks and well-shaped figure, and gives good heed 
to her conversation. Turn into the butchers' thoroughfare, where on 
market days the housewives make their bargains of primest beef, and 
blue-aproned shopmen briskly whet their shining blades on the steel dan- 
gling by their side. Keep up the hill into the irregular space known as 
the town-square, where once stood the market- cross, and where is now a 
monument to some local worthy. Here are we again on historic ground. 
Twice was Charles the First in this place : once in 1644, and again in the 
August of the following year, six or eight weeks after the fatal battle of 
Naseby. I greatly fear that the Ashbourne people cared more for the 
orange-tawny scarfs and ribbons of the Parliamentarian soldiers than for 
the King's men. A hundred years later, December 3, 1745, Charles 
Edward — commonly known as the Young Pretender — entered the town, 
and the next day, at the Market Cross, he was proclaimed the true and 
lawful prince of England. His army consisted of about eight thousand 
men, for the more part indifferently equipped and considerably deranged 
by the bad roads and wet weather. But, notwithstanding their needs, it 
is not true, as is sometimes alleged, that they plundered wilfully and 
cruelly alike the mansions of the rich and the cottages of the poor, or that 
they extravagantly pillaged both stables and farmyards. They foraged, 
as do all armies, and they were addicted to borrowing, but a candid 
Hanoverian writer, William Hutton, author of the History of Derby, pub- 
lished in 1790, says: "Horses, arms, ammunition and public money, in 
all similar cases are deemed lawful plunder. They frequently paid their 
quarters — more frequently it was not expected. If they took people's 
shoes it was because they had none of their own ; and no voice speaks so 
loud as that of necessity. If they omitted payment, it was because they 
had no money." Doubtless the people of Ashbourne wondered what the 
end would be when in their streets they heard the bagpipes and saw the 
white cockade : all England at this moment was in consternation. They 
may even have pitied the tall and handsome prince engaged in the des- 
perate endeavor of regaining the throne of his ancestors. But the pity, if 



56 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

it existed at all, does not appear to have been strong enough to induce the 
villagers to enlist in his service. When the bellman ordered the inn- 
keepers and others to appear with their last acquittance and to bring as 
much ready money as that contained, the dread of military execution may 
have induced compliance ; and possibly, as elsewhere, on the proclamation 
of Charles as King, the church bells were rung and the houses were 
illuminated : but the dream was soon over and the romance was early 
done. This was Wednesday. The same day the townsfolk saw the last 
plaid and tartan pass over the stone bridge on the way to Derby. Two 
days later the troops, disheartened and fearful, returned on that retreat 
which ended at Culloden. 

It is a sad story, but none can ever question the bravery and skill 
which, against considerable odds, brought a small army, mainly undisci- 
plined and poorly furnished, within a hundred and thirty miles of London. 
Had the prince alone commanded, the advance would have been persisted 
in : wiser counsels prevailed. When all danger was over and the dread 
which had possessed the nation had gone, the people grew facetious. The 
men of Mappleton declared that having caught a Highlander they had 
killed him, and finding his skin remarkably thick and tough, had tanned 
it. Anybody who choose might see the excellent leather thus made. So 
it was said of one of Jack Cade's followers, the tanner of Wingham : " He 
shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog's leather of." 

But as I stand in the old square and ponder over these things, I do 
not feel inclined to laugh. It was an alarming crisis in the history of 
England. Had the Stuarts regained the throne from which by transgres- 
sion they fell, it would have been a sorry day both for them and for the 
English-speaking peoples. One can say this and yet be affected by the 
romance of the Jacobite movement. The story of Bonnie Prince Charlie 
stirs the imagination, and none can admire more than I do the men who 
girded on the sword and followed his fortunes. But had he succeeded, the 
terrible work of the seventeenth century would have had to have been done 
again. The fields of England once more would have gone unploughed, 
and the streams of England would have run with blood. Another king, 
perchance, had seen the scaffold. For the old theories of government, 
good enough in their day, were long since dead, and men care not for 
ghosts, fleshless and timeless as they are, to come back. England can 
never see another Tudor, and can never have another Plantagenet. 

I must not, however, get too serious. Inns abound in Ashbourne — 
the Bear, the Britannia, the White Hart and the like. The brand-new 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 57 

sign of the George and Dragon, gorgeous in color and daring in design, 
will look better when the rains of half a score of winters shall have 
dimmed its inordinate splendor and made it indecipherable. On the steps 
of yonder grocer's shop John Wesley once preached: there are still some 
in the town who adhere to his opinions and methods. The church on 
the hill-top on the northern edge of the town is the headquarters of the 
"Free Church," a very Zion, if not a Gibraltar, for those views of religion 
called pure and reformed ; but neither for it nor for the Hall farther along 
the river, can we longer neglect the dinner which awaits us at the Green 
Man. Now has disappeared every sign of rain. The evening is coming 
on in fullest grace, and from the higher parts of Ashbourne we look upon 
a landscape we fear not to think one of the loveliest in all the world. 

Listen ! There are singers. To-day came to Ashbourne a choir of 
men and boys from Stafford, and now their outing done and the time for 
their home-going having been reached, they stay their break in front of 
the Green Man and sing a hymn. How rich and sweet their voices in the 
still eventide ! And the people gather around them, with heads uncov- 
ered, and listen to the praise offered unto Him whose throne is beyond the 
blue sky and the red golden sunset. 

A tidy, old-fashioned room this, in which our dinner is served. If it 
lack elegance, it certainly possesses comfort. The low windows, with the 
curtains along the bottom, bespeak that ease and refreshment which the 
traveller may here have. The table, too, is well furnished — a shoulder of 
mutton, cold ham, meat pie, vegetables ; a snow-white cloth and crock- 
ery ware of the blue willow pattern. Ashbourne has been famous for its 
cheese ; but it is not evident that the piece offered us is of native growth 
or manufacture. Mr. Charles Cotton held that the town had the best 
malt and the worst ale in England : times have changed, as we can 
testify, so far as the latter part of his statement is concerned. Perhaps it 
may be that mine host of the Talbot gave to Viator and Piscator, instead 
of " a flagon of his best ale," a bumbard of broken beer, as the ancients 
called the leavings of what has been drawn for others. Certainly, that 
which is set before us, brown and foaming — a very crowned cup, to use 
the old expression — would pass the most rigorous ale-conner. We set 
to : for 

Kit's as hungry now 
As a besieged city, and as dry 
As a Dutch commentator. 



58 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Curiously enough our day is to end with the merry noise of minstrelsy 
and song. Before we get to dessert some Salvation Army people take 
their station in front of our windows, and lift up their voices in strains 
which it would be hard to denominate either as sacred or as profane. A 
pale young man holds the flag ; another beats the drum — which instru- 
ment, by the way, some imagine to be typical of the whole movement : 
noisy and empty ; a girl plays a tambourine as skilfully as though she 
had served an apprenticeship on a gaiety stage ; and a woman, old enough 
to be the mother of the company, does the singing. Her voice is good. 
Around them gather a few children, but older passers-by scarcely look at 
them. On the face of our waitress I observe a shadow of contempt, and 
to a question I propose she replies, with not a little irritation : 

"They do no good at all. They disturb sick folks with their drum, 
and try to make people stay away from church, and go to their meetings. 
Some more pudding, sir ? " 

"But," I asked, not heeding her request, " have they not helped some 
who went to no place of worship ? ' ' 

"Everybody in Ashbourne goes to church or chapel," retorted the 
maid ; "we are not heathen. Some more pudding, sir ? " 

" Still, they are earnest and sincere, you know, and it is not right to 
have ill will against anyone who is trying to help others." 

But my waitress was not to be daunted or softened : "They are not 
half as earnest and sincere as is Satan. He tries day and night to get 
hold of us, and he means to have us if he can. And as to helping others, 
if taking people away from church and telling them that the way to 
heaven is through the Salvation Army is any help, we can manage with- 
out it. Some more pudding, sir ? " 

" I beg your pardon." And thoughtfully and slowly I eat my pud- 
ding, while outside the drum and the tambourine continue their doleful 
and outlandish noise. The clatter is not pleasant. I found out afterwards 
that the players thereof had shown themselves very offensive in their per- 
sistency, and much harm had been done by the reaction which had followed 
their early successes. 

Man has a fancy for doing that which is forbidden him. Had no 
command been given concerning the tree of knowledge, Eve would have 
had no desire to eat of its fruit, and perhaps were no one annoyed by the 
noisy ebullitions of the Salvation Army, and sought not for injunctions 
against them, the confusion would come to an end. In like manner, in 
every generation since men have determinedly broken the unity of the 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 59 

Church, the delight of differing from other people, and of showing defiance 
of principles which more conservative minds hold sacred, have made dis- 
senters or nonconformists all the more anxious to go to the conventicle 
rather than to the parish church. God forbid that I should say one word 
against whatever may be of Christ amongst those who thus separate 
themselves from the body of the faithful : I speak only of such character- 
istics as have prevailed and do prevail among such people, and which 
impress me as being the chief cause for the existence of their societies. 
For I do not know that it is necessary to go out of the Church to be made 
like Christ or to live a virtuous life ; and when anyone else thinks so, my 
charity comes to an end so far as that one is concerned. The Dissenter 
has thought so. He has enjoyed to the full the delicious sweetness of 
differing from the general run of people, and, under possibility of perse- 
cution, slipping up an alley to a meeting-house. He has also had a 
delight sweeter far than that, namely, the complacency with which the 
few who find themselves in such out-of-the-way corners regard themselves 
as the elect of the Lord, and the only righteous ones on earth. I do not 
know anything of the state of religion in Ashbourne, but I have recollec- 
tions of the way this spirit has displayed itself in other places — in one, for 
instance, which I shall not closer indicate than to say that it is far from 
the reach and the sound of the drum in the street. In that place is a 
conventicle, which, like the drum, has for its result, if not its purpose, 
the disturbance of other people. No ; if the ungodly were disturbed, I 
should be ready to wish it God-speed, but the ungodly are untouched — 
unless by the ungodly you mean the people who, like our waiting-maid in 
the "Green Man," serve God as their fathers have served Him for many 
long centuries. And that is exactly, let me tell you, what the typical 
sectarian considers the ungodly to be. In that conventicle, how the folks' 
mouths would water when the shoemaker, — who occupied the pulpit and 
loved to speak of the saints riding roughshod over the foes of righteous- 
ness, — discoursed of the abomination of desolation set up in the parish 
church, and of the catastrophe that would some day befall all those who 
bowed down to the golden image of priestcraft, superstition, Puseyism and 
caste, which the Book of Common Prayer upheld, and concerning which 
essays were read by the parson, — an ungodly man, and doubtless a son of 
perdition ! The whole town some day would be swept away, even as the 
world was covered by a flood, and as Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed 
by fire and brimstone ; but out of the destruction would be saved another 
Noah and another L,ot, with their families — even that remnant which 



60 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

avoided the concourse of the wicked and worshipped in ' ' Welcome 
Bethel." The town of which I am thinking contained about two thousand 
people, nine-tenths of whom belonged to the parish church, and of the 
remaining number onfy about five and twenty to that society in which 
alone were the faithful, as they called themselves, gathered. Thus only 
twenty-five, just a choice fragment, would be rescued ; all others would 
inevitably and happily perish. That God should thus have a favor 
towards the one moiety of the population, and a special hatred for all 
other sorts and conditions of men, was highly satisfactory to those who 
belonged to the aforesaid five and twenty. Had the number been even 
smaller, those left would have been better pleased. A man naturally loves 
to think himself the one selected out of a multitude for some work or for 
some blessing. 

Indeed, is there in this world a joy half so great as that of being in a 
minority ? There one has sympathy, unity, hope ; and what is more, the 
assurance of being absolutely and infallibly in the right. I have known 
Churchmen who have longed for this joy as ardently as did ever Dissenter 
— that is to say, if one might judge from their lack of effort to win out- 
siders to them. Even a majority learns to pity a minority, and, pity 
being akin to love, the keenness of the opposition is taken off, and peace 
might ensue if the minority so desired — which thing the minority never 
does desire, ever loving a little persecution. Nor is this unnatural, for 
persecution always hurts the persecutor rather than the persecuted, and 
shows more glaringly the cruelty and wickedness of the former, and more 
comfortingly the resignation and virtue of the latter. Both Foxe and 
Neal, and even Walker, would lose half their charm — if by a stretch of 
imagination you can suppose them to have any — were the stories of the 
sufferings taken out of them. You read them, not so much to know how 
men of your own side endured, but to ascertain how wicked were the 
people on the other side. Besides, there is a satisfaction in being whipped, 
imprisoned and tormented, and everybody knows that the Early Church 
had to restrain the people from rushing to martyrdom. In England no 
Dissenter would like the memory of certain acts of parliament to pass 
away. They prove better than anything else the iniquity of the Church 
and the virtue of nonconformity. 

This curious perversity of human nature is further apparent whenever 
a small band of trusty ones swells into a considerable multitude. The 
sweetness of the minority, the deliciousness of persecution and the charm 
of breaking the law are gone. The little meeting-house grows into a big 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 61 

temple. Once ten happy souls railed against the world and congratulated 
themselves on being out of it ; now a thousand people, free from trial, sit 
in splendor and solitude, and wonder what it is that has destroyed the 
sociability. In the one house the ten sat on deal benches, wore faded and 
ill-fitting clothes, used snuff and peppermint, saw white-washed walls and 
heard a brother preach from behind a table lighted by two or three candles 
stuck in pewter sticks, and without a cloth upon it ; now, the thousand sit 
in cushioned pews, amid surroundings which make a cathedral appear 
poverty-stricken, and listen to orators and musicians whose work is artis- 
tically perfect, but who, somehow or other, fail to touch the soul. And this 
verger — how comes the name into a place where the Gospel is preached 
and the pews are arranged like the seats of a theatre ? — this verger, with 
smooth hair and undertaker's costume, who goes stealthily about the 
building to turn up the gas and to shut pew doors, is not half so pleasing 
as was old Brother Elton, the stout, red-faced butcher, when in the little 
chapel ever and anon he went up to the deal table aforementioned and said, 
" Brother Higgins, stop a minute while I snuff the candles " — which act 
he performed with his fingers, perhaps remarking as he did so, ' ' Yes, 
that be truth ! that be truth !" No one ever gets up in this sanctuary of 
splendor and tells, as once in the old place Joe, the carpenter, did, of the 
vicar's meanness. The parson had beat Joe down twopence in a bill of a 
shilling for mending the back of a currying brush. "I tell you," said 
Joe, on that memorable occasion, " the parson be a hard man. He do 
defraud the labourer of his hire. He be particularly down on we chapel 
folks. Poor Sister Mary there could not get a red gown from him because 
she didn't go to church, and when she offered to go he wouldn't change 
his mind. And yet he keeps a horse and calls himself a minister. A man- 
made minister, says I, just about fit for folks as plays cricket and wants 
.sermons read to them." Such experiences are now left untold — not 
because parsons have grown better, for being heirs of perdition their des- 
tiny is otherwise, but because in these new associations the charm of 
minority has vanished. Nobody says or does anything to hurt the feelings 
of the faithful. The congregation is rich, and rather than be in that wild 
wilderness of freedom and power, many of its members long for the flesh- 
pots and onions of the house of bondage. By-and-by a few of these dis- 
satisfied ones will secede, and again form a happy minority in some court- 
yard. Then will they accuse the brethren they have left as vigorously as 
once they lifted up with them their hearts and voices against the Church, 
and they will enjoy at the hands of these same brethren a little of that 
persecution which makes life worth living. 



62 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Now there was John Alcock, a hedge-cutter and ditcher, who with his 
wife and seven or eight other individuals, met every Lord's Day in his 
downstairs' front room to worship God according to John's own conscience. 
John was a good man, and while one would not compare him with the 
vicar — whose virtues were in the opinion of his own people of an extraor- 
dinary type, and whose wickedness every dissenter in that part of the 
county had known for years, — yet he was quite as upright an individual 
as the parish clerk. His prevailing infirmity was his dislike of the " Es- 
tablishment," though he did not know whether he hated more the scarlet 
lady of Rome than he did a scarlet-coated hunting parson ; in which un- 
certainty he continued all his life, for he never saw either, and honestly 
supposed that when querulous folk talked of Popish germs in the Church of 
England they mostly referred to the garb of the foxhunter or to the hood 
of the Doctor. He never knew what Romanism was, and never got beyond 
the conclusion that Anglicanism equalled it in badness. If there was any 
wickedness in this world it was to be found in the Church — every murderer 
who was hanged and every thief who was transported were attended by 
clergymen. No Baptists, for instance, ever went to prison. As to the 
Prayer Book it was full of error from lid to lid. ' ' ' Common, ' do they call 
it? " he would say ; " yes, common as are sin and ignorance." The only 
thing the parson did that had any efficacy in it was marrying folks. That 
was certainly binding. But as to his bought sermons and his cut-and- 
dried prayers, they were naught, and he would have none of them. They 
grated on his conscience. So a few friends and neighbors, who agreed to 
follow John's conscience rather than the parson's conscience, met in John's 
cottage every Sunday for worship. 

The worship was simple. First came a hymn from Denham's collec- 
tion — a book containing over eleven hundred spiritual melodies and highly 
valued by the poor and persecuted people, for whom they were composed, 
scattered over the midland counties. This was sung mostly by brother 
John himself, and considering that he had passed his fiftieth year without 
developing any remarkable taste or talent for song, he deserved much 
credit. Others would join in as the notes or words came within their 
compass. When the hymn had an unusual number of verses — seven was 
the average — John would sing about two- thirds of the way through, and 
then, stopping, desire sister Rebeccah to take up the strain. Sister Re- 
beccah's voice was sorrowful and tremulous, for she had suffered much 
from a husband who clipped the Vicar's trees, and provided the Vicar's 
owl with sparrows and mice. Altogether the hymn lasted some fifteen 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 63 

minutes : it was read once through, sometimes commented upon, then one 
verse at a time was read and sung ; a suitable tune had to be found and 
tried, and in the singing favorite notes were appropriately dwelt upon. 
A chapter of Scripture followed — John either skipped the hard words or 
simply spelled their letters. Twenty minutes were then devoted to prayer, 
though sinful it is to call such an exercise by so sacred a name. If it 
were, as the good folks called it, an outpouring of John's soul, John had 
a soul of deplorable texture. At times it was as though John were address- 
ing the Almighty as a colonel addresses his regiment before the men enter 
the battle or begin the review : he would have Him arise, scatter His 
enemies, vindicate His cause, cast down the rich and the proud, confound 
all who wear surplices, and generally clear both the plague-impregnated 
atmosphere and the sin-filled town. At other times the tones were such 
as a lover would utter to his lass, tender, sweet, enticing— such as some 
said were enough to fetch tears from the hardest heart ; though, it is pro- 
bable, that when that observation was made man rather than God was 
thought of. But John meant well enough and expressed his industry and 
sympathy in another hymn. 

Afterwards Brother George Zebulon Smith read a sermon preached 
and printed by that remarkable man, Philpott, once a priest of the Church 
of England, but since plucked as a brand from the burning and secured in 
the fold of those who do not believe that children belong to the kingdom 
of God, or that baptism means other than submersion. Rumor held that 
this Philpott had found much difficulty in leaving the Establishment : his 
bishop threatened to have him locked up, and did distress him of all his 
household goods. He wrote a quarto tract, in which he set forth with com- 
mendable brevity his reason for leaving the Church. This tract was held 
to be most precious by those people among whom he afterwards cast his 
lot, and copies of it are now scarce. The good man once wrote to John, 
who had addressed him anent the iniquity of the Crimean war, and the 
letter was pasted in John's Bible on the page which contains some words 
to the Most High and Mighty Prince James — which words by most right- 
thinking folks are considered indecorous and unscriptural, and by all John's 
friends were thought in style and grace to be far inferior to the Philpottian 
epistle. Sometimes the sermon was one of John Gadsby's, a decent Lon- 
doner and the proprietor of the "Gospel Standard," or the "Earthen 
Vessel " — two magazines held in high esteem by all who knew the truth. 
But from whatever source the discourse came, it ever contained some bits 
of solid predestinarian divinity, and some attacks upon the Church of 



64 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

England. Without these qualities it would have been graceless and 
lifeless. 

And herein was something marvellous. The Church of England did 
no more to these people than ignore them. She said nothing concerning 
them. They went their own way, and if the vicar had invited them to church 
and there had held a sendee such as their soul loved, they would have 
abused him with freshened vigor. Not one of them paid tithe or rate — not 
even the Easter penny ; not one of them need touch the Book of Common 
Prayer or see a surplice. Yet first of the essentials of their sermons and 
prayers was railing accusation against the Church. Possibly in this they 
were helpless : to this very thing were they predestinated. It never seems, 
however, to have occurred to them that predestination might not have 
been confined to them. 

Brother George Zebulon, who always read the discourse, was not him- 
self as good as the rest of the flock thought he should be. He kept a 
small grocer's shop, and was suspected of tampering with the quality of 
his goods and with the accounts of his customers, but he frequented the 
society of the righteous and had a good voice for reading. So he was 
tolerated and prayed for. Nor was it forgotten that he had been confirmed 
and brought up in the Church, till about nineteen years of age. 

The sermon over, another hymn was sung and the company went home 
to dinner — just fifteen minutes before the Wesley an Chapel let out, and 
twenty minutes before morning service was ended at the Church. 

What will be the end of this sort of thing ? No one knows. The 
Salvation Army people are still holding forth outside of the front door of 
the inn ; and the feeling in England between Churchman and noncon- 
formist is not less than it was thirty years since. You may crack your 
nuts after dinner, but this is a nut no man can crack. I am not inclined 
to "spread eagleism," but I utter the words of wisdom and soberness 
when I say that the spirit which I lament to find so rife in England is 
almost unknown in America. Here Ephraim does not vex Judah, nor 
does Judah trouble himself about Ephraim. The lamb and the lion lie 
down together, and so far as I know no sect is anxious to find out whether 
it be the lion or the lamb. We deplore our divisions and our differences, 
but we do not snarl or bite at one another; on the contrary, we honestly hope 
that some day God will enable us to see eye to eye and to become one, at 
least in heart and mind. There is little of this feeling in England, and not- 
withstanding anything I may have said which would seem to suggest that 
my sympathies were in one direction only, I fear that the fault lies as 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 65 

much with sectarians in the Church as with sectarians in Dissent. People 
who love their sect more than they love the Church or the Christ will ever 
quarrel. Pass me the grapes : I shall always honor and support a man 
who loves God, no matter where he is found or what he calls himself, and, 
if you want my heart-opinion, let me say that I would rather have the 
Gospel in broken fragments from the plain, simple-minded brother who 
used to stop while someone snuffed the candle, than to have it in all its 
philosophical and rhetorical fulness, even from a Chrysostom who chanced 
not to have Christ as his own. 

At last, peace ! The drum and tambourine people move away, and 
the table being cleared, I sit down to write. Before long I hear fresh 
sounds of song, more jovial and brighter than those which came from the 
street. Some jolly souls in the taproom, the other side the yard, thus 
give way to the hilarity which comes from honest hearts and strong 
ale. Thus they drive away care and bid melancholy flee, according to the 
refrain of their melody ; and every few minutes they tap their porter mugs 
on the tables and their heels on the flags. Who can write with such an 
uproar of good cheer far enough off to be agreeable and near enough to be 
distinct? We listen, and odd fancies come into our mind. The times have 
gone by when "Green Sleeves" and "Yellow Stockings" enlivened the 
village inn ; and nowadays the fathers of the hamlet can afford to have a 
pipe apiece, and not take turns as formerly they did with the one pipe. 
Ghosts and witches no longer form the staple of conversation . The fiddler 
remains; but no fiddler remembers " Sellinger's Round" or "Old Simon 
the King," and no singer, even if he knew such delectable pieces, would 
venture to give "The Worcestershire Wedding " or " Bonny Jean." Nor 
is the poor parson, as was once his custom, contrary to the canons, to be 
found by the fire in the alehouse kitchen with his pipe and bottle of beer. 
The world is better in more ways than one ; and while fragments of tavern 
scenes picked up from the old plays and novels present themselves, not 
so unpleasingly as perhaps they ought to — which goes to show that we 
are not of Puritan clay, — we remember that we have never had more than 
a glimpse of a tap when the reek hides the blackened joist, and the hob- 
nail scrapes the sawdust, and the sons of merriment lose themselves in 
boisterous gabble and wet their lips in flowing foam. Still we hear the 
songs, and somehow or other it is comfortable to know that fun has not 
died out from among men. " Dost thou think because thou art virtuous 
there shall be no more cakes and ales ? " 

In an inn such as this, where we are now refreshing ourselves, or 



66 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

when we recall, say, the "Swan" at Bolsover, or the "Peacock" at 
Rowsley, — of both which we shall have something to say further on, — one 
cannot but think of the inns and their surroundings, as they formerly 
were. Some of the buildings remain, much to the delight of the stranger, 
if not to the comfort of the villager ; but the times have changed. We 
feel ourselves privileged. It is not everybody who has rested in a house 
like the "Green Man;" and in these days people are apt to forget the 
years of yore, when the stage-coach came along the king's highwa}', and 
travellers found here their rest and shelter. Whether it be the songs of 
the merrymakers or the low ceilings that awaken the memories of the past, 
I know not ; but — Have you ever read Farquhar's Beaux Stratagem ? 
No ! Then there is some humor and wit yet in store. He had much to 
say about the public-house, though the inn, of which he speaks in his 
comedy, was at L,ichfield, a few miles from here, and had a landlord such 
as the "Green Man," so far as I know, never possessed. Put on your 
slippers and rest your feet on the fender in front of the fire, the night is 
chilly ; and let us go back, perhaps as in a dream, to scenes that once 
were and are now no more. 

If these country inns had not the conveniences of the "Mitre" — 
which probably is the one Dr. Johnson had in mind when he pronounced 
that a tavern-chair was the throne of human felicity — they were replete 
with such comforts as the tastes of the patrons demanded. They filled a 
niche in a social economy which, since the coming of the railway and the 
telegraph, has passed through a complete revolution. In those old days 
the roads were by no means continuously good. In the neighborhood of 
London it was possible to drive on the great highways for ten or fifteen 
miles without much fear of deep ruts or miry pools, but by the time Derby- 
shire was reached travel became slow and dangerous. Turnpike acts and 
highway boards were unknown ; each parish looked after its own roads, 
and that with a faithfulness not of uniform strength. Holes made by 
one winter's rain were left unfilled for years — possibly some village Shal- 
low thought that as holes were inevitable, it was useless to repair those 
already in existence. Nor was travel great; indeed, a journey from the 
provinces to the capital was looked upon by the country folk as a note- 
worthy undertaking, to be done only by noblemen, knights of the shire, 
merchants and vagrants. The ends of the earth were not brought together in 
those days, nor did the corners feel the flow and ebb of the world's great life. 
Travel was still done mostly on horseback, though coaches, heavy and un- 
sightly, plunged through the dust or the mud of the country. Nearty every- 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 67 

body could ride well, and for such the roads were good enough, but the inside 
of a coach was probably the most unhappy bit of space outside of Newgate 
or a county gaol. Gentlemen, gouty, corpulent and aged ; women, garrulous 
and testy ; invalids, children and strangers, were packed in regardless of 
health or comfort. The}' were fortunate if a dog or a cat or a monkey did 
not share with them the fetid atmosphere. Bundles were stuffed under the 
seats and between legs ; boxes, hampers and other passengers were outside, 
and the great, cumbersome vehicle, dragged by four or six horses, went 
tumbling and jolting along, every few yards threatening an upset, which 
not unusually happened several times in the course of a long journey. The 
monotony had an occasional relief from the loss of a horse's shoe, the 
breaking of a trace, the slipping of a tire, or the swelling of a brook over 
which was no bridge. A heavy rain added to the miseries, for, facetious- 
ness aside, disagreeable as stormy weather is, even in these days of luxu- 
rious travelling, the people of old cared little for any application of water. 
They lived without baths, and drank spirits without "qualifying;" and 
when rain came on, the folks inside the coach pulled up the wooden or tin 
window-covers — glass was not generally used in public conveyances — and 
in the gloom strengthened their hearts with mighty potions, took snuff, 
fumed, and spoke unkindly of both the roads and the weather. At every 
wayside inn the coach drew up, and the passengers had ' ' refreshments : ' ' 
she who chanced to ask for tea, even though she proposed "lacing" it, 
being looked upon as a poor creature who never should have left home. 
When the coach came to a steep hill the men got out and walked, thereby 
stretching their own legs and relieving the horses. And thus the clumsy 
conveyance went on, and the people were satisfied if the stage of twenty 
or twenty-five miles was made before sunset. They knew no better, and 
imagined no better possible. 

But the greatest dread travellers then had arose from thieves and rob- 
bers. The country did not swarm with highwaymen, but they were plen- 
tiful enough to cause both women's hearts to tremble and men to arm 
themselves with rapiers and pistols. Desperate encounters were not un- 
frequent, and as the crime of robbery on the road was capital, bandits, 
when desperately driven, did not hesitate to kill. They would be hanged 
in chains for robbery if caught, and for murder their punishment would 
be the same. The stage and the novel have given these knights of the 
road a romance of gold lace and reckless honor, but, for the most part, 
villains were they, haggard in countenance, rude in costume and spending 
their ill-gotten spoils with creatures of infamy and in dens of depravity. 



68 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Possibly, once in a while among them might be found one of higher birth 
and greater talents, but his fall from respectability and his gifts would only 
serve to make him more daring in roguery and debauchery. A man who 
has within him the remains of a dead conscience is capable of any crime. 
Moral opinion was against such wretches, strongly if they chanced to be 
found out, mildly ami forgivingly if, like Claude Duval, they were gal- 
lant, and like Cardell Goodman, the player, successful in covering their 
retreat. They had, indeed, many chances of putting off the day of retribu- 
tion. Many a cottager knew the members of the gang that "worked" 
the road running by his door, but the fear of having his own little prop- 
er ty wrecked, if not his own life taken, effectually closed his mouth. Even 
village constables failed to distinguish the touch of an honest man's or a 
rogue's gold. Good, harmless Dogberries, they went to church on Sun- 
days, and drank ale on weekday evenings, and were not expected to see 
things that were going on behind their backs. So in Much Ado About 
Nothing, the Master Constable addresses Neighbor Seacoal, the constable 
of the watch, thus : 

This is your charge : you shall comprehend all vagrom men ; 

you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name ! 
How if a' will not stand ? 
Why, then take no note of him, but let him go ; and presently 

call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are 

rid of a knave. 

And such the guardians of the king's peace frequently did, especially 
in view of the fact that the "watch ought to offend no man, and it is an 
offence to stay a man against his will," and more especially when the knave 
had a swift steed or used an auriferous aneling. When, however, the 
constable happened to be also parish clerk, and thereby had a conscience, 
his will to capture evil-doers might be great, but alas ! what could age 
and infirmity do against a young and hard-muscled ruffian ? Besides, it 
sometimes chanced that the coachman played into the hands of the high- 
waymen. Content with this world, at least with what he saw of it from 
the boot or in the bar, he had no desire that his body should become a 
billet for shot. Not unlikely he knew the band, perhaps had once been 
one of them, and might be one of them again, and he would be the last 
in the world to betray a friend. So long as they did not hurt him or his 
horses, he had nothing to say. If people would take money and jewels 
with them on their journey ings he was not answerable for the conse- 




Soutb jfront of Ibaooon 1ball, from tbe ©aroen. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 69 

quences, and how could he prevent the hostler about Bishopsgate Street 
or Smithfield giving to strangers information of the booty ? 

But, besides such confederates, it sometimes happened, as with Boni- 
lace and Gibbet in the play I just now mentioned, that the highwayman 
had a friend in the innkeeper. Even Cherry knew the men of " our gang." 
Her father, Boniface, suspected Aimwell as of the "profession," but he 
told Cherry : " Since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray him 
with a safe conscience ; I don't think it lawful to harbor any rogues but 
my own." Innkeepers have not always possessed scrupulously moral 
tendencies, and, though sometimes they have entertained justices and 
have gone to church, others, worse than they, have done the same things ; 
so that such a criterion fails to establish character. But Boniface was 
decidedly bad. To get Aimwell \s money, he would sacrifice Cherry. He 
directed her to wheedle the man Martin. That bright-minded damsel 
understood him : ' ' What a rogue is my father ! My father ! I deny it 
. . . . This landlord of mine, for I think I can call him no more, 
would betray his guest and debauch his daughter into the bargain." With 
such men as hosts, the dangers and difficulties of old-time travelling were, 
therefore, increased. 

Nevertheless, when the inn was reached, it seemed both to travellers 
and to natives as a refuge of comfcrt. Through the low-arched doorway 
they who sought its shelter entered into a stone-paved passage or hall, on 
one side of which was the bar and on the other the parlor, while at the 
far end came first the kitchen and scullery, and then the yard, almost 
exactly the same as the " Green Man." A dining-room adjoins the 
kitchen and the parlor, and from it a winding staircase, dark and narrow, 
leads to the sleeping chambers, to the garret and to the gallery overlook- 
ing the court. The pantry is a dismal little nook close by ; brooms, 
buckets and mops are kept in a closet under the stairway. In the cellar, 
amid cobwebs and gloom, musty-smelling and rat-frequented, are the tuns 
of wine and the barrels of beer. Thence the drawer fetches the choice 
port or the brown ale ; and here, decently out of sight of all men, and 
waiting till sufficiently seasoned, are hung to a beam the venison haunch, 
the poached hare and the plucked pheasant. The kitchen fireplace is 
huge, with seats under the wide, open chimney. In the best corner 
thereof nestles the sleepy post-boy, his feet near to the dog-irons and his 
face shining with the glare from the crackling brake. There lies Gyp, the 
faithful hound, heedless to the peckings of the tame jackdaw, which 
hops about the hearth and under the dresser, as though a kitchen were a 
6 



70 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

happier home for such as he than the oldest church tower : let but a 
strange footfall be heard, and the dog will prick up his ears and give the 
warning growl. 

Many a tale is told and many a song is sung before the bright blaze. 
Sides of bacon and blocks of powdered beef hang in the smoky chimney ; the 
cook keeps odds and ends in a cupboard close by the soot-ridge — bath- brick 
for the knives and forks, shoe-strings, some horse-chestnuts in case of rheum- 
atism, a Bible, a box of pepper corns, a song book and a pair of worn- 
out boots ; in the same corner a number of green wands are drying, out of 
which Tim, the boy of all work, hopes to make whip-handles, fishing 
rods and bows ; and over the high mantel-shelf is mine host's musket, 
one which was used by his forebears in the days when the Armada threat- 
ened trouble, and again in good King Charles's time, and is still as useful as 
ever. There is the wheel in which Towzer runs his round until the joint 
on the spit is sufficiently done, and for which labor he will be rewarded 
with a kick or a bone from the cook, perhaps with a rat from the stable- 
man. Downstairs the floors are of flag, in winter strewn with straw, and 
in summer either sprinkled with sawdust or whitened with soapstone ; 
upstairs, wood is used, and in the best rooms mats are spread by the bed- 
side. The low ceilings are black from the smoke of the candles and the 
faggot-fed fires. Windows are few, and are filled with small diamond 
panes of thick, greenish glass. On the walls which appear dingy and 
always in need of repair, are some rudely executed prints — one in the 
taproom of a robber hanging on a gallows, — two or three badgers' paws, 
a dried cat's skin, a number of whips, swords and pistols, and, in the 
parlor, " my son Tom's first widgeon stuffed." The furniture throughout 
the house is rather solid than handsome or abundant : heavy wooden 
settees with high backs to keep off the draughts, tables ponderous and 
marked with many a cup-ring or knife-whittling, cupboards with drawers 
and recesses many and intricate, and chairs better adapted for rough usage 
than for a drawing-room. Everything, however, is clean — always except- 
ing the walls and ceilings. In the morning twilight the women scrub the 
floors, the boys scour the tankards and spittoons, and the men busy them- 
selves about the stables, the yard and the street. 

The liveliest and most frequented part of the house is the "tap" — 
as you may judge from the songs which come therefrom louder and gayer 
than ever — a good sized room, furnished with settees and tables, and, at 
the far end, with the bar. In that bar are the little tubs of spirits, cordials 
and wines, set on a long shelf, and the drippings from the several spigots 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 71 

run into a trough which empties itself into a small barrel, from whence 
comes the " pennyworth of all sorts." Into the same receptacle are also 
put the rinsings of the cups, the remains left in tankard or goblet, and 
the drainings from the cellar. Poor and thirsty customers are helped 
from this mixture, and they find in it both taste and potency sufficient 
for all reasonable need. The landlord, however, prides himself upon his 
ale, and though those of Derby and of Lincoln were excellent, and not to 
be despised by gentlemen, yet they were poor compared with that brewed 
on the premises. Lichfield was famed for this beverage. "Sir," said 
Boniface to Aim well, " I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in 
Staffordshire ; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber and strong 
as brandy, and will be just fourteen years old the fifth day of next March, 
old style." To verify his assertion he ordered the tapster to broach 
"number 1706, as the saying is," and continued: "I have fed purely 
upon ale ; I have eat my ale, drank nty ale, and I always sleep upon 
ale." Then, filling a glass, he adds; "Now, sir, you shall see. Your 
worship's health: Ha ! delicious, delicious — fancy it Burgundy, only 
fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart." 

Aimwell : 'Tis confounded strong. 

Bon. : Strong ! It must be so, or how would we be strong that drink it? 

Aim. : And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord ? 

Bon. : Eight and fifty years, upon my credit, sir ; but it killed my wife, poor 
woman, as the saying is. 

Aim. : How came that to pass? 

Bon. : I don't know how, sir ; she would not let the ale take its natural course, 
sir; she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as 
the saying is ; and an honest gentleman that came this way from 
Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh — but 
the poor woman was never well after. But, however, I was obliged 
to the gentleman, you know. 

Aim. : Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her ? 

Bon. : My lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what could be done ; 
she cured her of three tympanies, but the fourth carried her off ; but 
she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is. 

And such ale as that described by Boniface, and such conversation 
as that indulged in by him, were common in the tap-room. Men became 
maudlin, and either pathetic or noisy ; then they fell asleep. But in the 
hilarious hours the room rang with merry voices. During the day the 
place was lonely enough; but when evening came on, and the candles 



72 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

were lighted and the stage-coach had arrived, it was thronged with good 
souls. There did strangers tell the mysteries of distant towns; coachmen 
and postilions recounted their adventures, and again perpetrated their 
pleasantries; catches, glees and choruses were sung with more vigor than 
grace ; there 

— village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 

Occasionally an itinerant juggler performed his tricks, or a wandering 
player recited a ballad or a bit of drama ; then the simple folk drank 
more beer, and opened still wider their eyes and mouth. The varnished 
clock behind the door went on clicking away the moments; the night wind 
whistled under the eaves, and swung to and fro the creaking sign ; the 
watchdogs barked as they saw the soft-winged owl sweep by the hedge ; 
but the merriment and the pouring out of ale and of wit ceased not, till 
the hour of closing came, and Boniface reluctantly bade his guests betake 
themselves to bed and his friends set out for home. 

There are tricks and secrets in all trades, and among the many in 
that of a landlord's business are the knowledge of human nature and the 
ability to make everything tend to the interest of self. Our Boniface was 
an expert ; nor had Cherry failed to profit by her experience. Angrily 
her father said to her : 

The company of the Warrington coach has stood in the hall this hour, and 

nobody to show them to their chambers. 
Cherry: And let 'em wait, father; there's neither red-coat in the coach, nor 

footman behind it. 
Bon. : But the)' threatened to go to another inn to-night. 
Cherry: That they dare not, for fear the coachman should overturn them 

to-morrow. 

The damsel sufficiently justified her delay ; the travellers were poor 
and helpless. When the London coach arrives she will hasten to give 
her " very welcome," and to direct the chamberlain to show " The Lyon 
and the Rose." Nor is her father ever at a loss to make comfortable 
such choice spirits as "the Constable, Mr. Gage the exciseman, and 
the hunch-backed barber." He knows when to give and when to take. 
Balderdash, in the Twin Rivals, is a good illustration of Farquhar's idea 
of such a host. "This vintner, now," said the spendthrift, Young 
Wouldbe, " has all the marks of an honest fellow, a broad face, a copious 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 



73 



look, a strutting belly and a jolly mien." The fat landlord and the wild 
youth drink together a " whetting-glass " of "the best old hock in 
Europe ; " then the latter says : 

Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one thing, but first sit down : now tell me plainly 

what you think of me. 
Bald. : Think of you, sir ! I think that you are the honestest, noblest gentleman 

that ever drank a glass of wine ; and the best customer that ever 

came into my house. 
Y. W. : And you really think as you speak ? 
Bald. : May this drink be my poison, sir, if I don't speak from the bottom of 

my heart. 
Y. W. : And how much money do you think I have spent in your house? 
Bald.: Why, truly, sir, by a moderate computation, I do believe that I have 

handled of your money the best part of five hundred pounds within 

these two years. 
Y. W. : Very well ! And do you think that you lie under any obligation for 

the trade I have promoted to your advantage ? 
Bald. : Yes, sir; and if I can serve you in any respect, pray command me to 

the utmost of my ability. 
Y. W. : Well! thanks to my stars, there is still some honesty in wine. Mr. 

Balderdash, I embrace you and your kindness : I am at present a 

little low in cash, and must beg you to lend me a hundred pieces. 
Bald. : Why, truly, Mr. Wou'dbe, I was afraid it would come to this. I have 

had it in my head several times to caution you upon your expenses : 

but you were so very genteel in my house, and your liberality 

became you so very well, that I was unwilling to say anything that 

would check your disposition ; but truly, sir, I can forbear no longer 

to tell you, that you have been a little too extravagant. 
Y. W. : But since you reap'd the benefit of my extravagance, you will, I hope, 

consider my necessity. 
Bald. : Consider your necessity ! I do with all my heart, and must tell you, 

moreover, that I will be no longer accessory to it : I desire you, sir, 

to frequent my house no more. 
Y. W. : How, sir ! 
Bald. : I say, sir, that I have an honor for my good lord your father, and will 

not suffer his son to run into any inconvenience. Sir, I shall order 

my drawers not to serve you with a drop of wine. Wou'd you have 

me connive at a gentleman's destruction ? 
Y. W. : But methinks, sir, that a person of your nice conscience should have 

cautioned me before. 
Bald. : Alas ! sir, it was none of my business. Wou'd you have me be saucy 

to a gentleman that was my best customer ? Lackaday, sir, had you 

money to hold it out still, I had been hang'd rather than be rude to 

you. But truly, sir, when a man is ruin'd, 'tis but the duty of a 

Christian to tell him of it. 



74 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

There is much of human nature and of tavern nature in this colloquy, 
and Balderdash did exactly what Boniface or any other ' ' noble host ' ' 
would have done under like circumstances ; though Young Wouldbe 
might ask, as did Clincher, in Sir Harry Wildair, "What has a gentle- 
man to do with religion, pray? " Massinger, in the first act of his New 
Way to Pay Old Debts, has a similar scene. The miserable prodigal 
Wellborn receives neither help nor sympathy from Tapwell, the alehouse- 
keeper. Such folk had pliable morals. Said Mistress Mulligrub in 
Marston's Dutch Courtezan: "Truth, husband, surely heaven is not 
pleased with our vocation. We do wink at the sins of our people. Our 
wines are Protestants; and I speak it to my grief, and to the burthen of 
my conscience, we fry our fish with salt butter. ' ' But these qualms did 
not hinder her from promising her husband " a week's cutting," that is 
to say, to adulterate the liquors, to froth the cans and to shorten the 
change. "Thus," as she put it, " 'tis to have good education, and to 
be brought up in a tavern." Why, indeed, should a Boniface care for a 
worn-out spendthrift or a Cherry trouble herself for a coach-load of folks, 
not one of whom would be likely to order more than a pipkin of small 
beer or other than the cheapest room in the house ? 

The resources of an inn are always unlimited ; no wise landlord has 
ever suffered a guest to suppose that any want, possible or impossible, 
could be left unsupplied. A part of the Beaux Stratage?n illustrates this 
fact. Boniface has for supper " a delicate piece of beef in the pot and a 
pig at the fire;" but Aimwell did not eat the one, and Archer disliked 
the other. 

Bon. : Please to bespeak something else ; I have everything in the house. 

Aim. : Have you any veal ? 

Bon. : Veal ! Sir, we had a delicate loin of veal on Wednesday last. 

Aim. : Have you got any fish, or wild fowl ? 

Bon. : As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland town, and indifferently provided 

with fish, that's the truth on't ; but then for wild fowl ! — we have 

a delicate couple of rabbits." 

These Aimwell would have fricasseed, but Boniface eagerly assures him 
that "they'll eat much better smother' d with onions." A muleteer told 
Scipio at Illescas of a certain way the innkeepers and the pastry cooks of 
Spain had of making an olio ; it may be read in the twelfth chapter of the 
tenth book of Gil Bias of Santillane, and an application appears in the 
forty-eighth chapter of Peregrine Pickle. Rabbits being plentiful about 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE 75 

Lichfield, Boniface would have little inducement to make such " delicate" 
substitution. 

It was at such inns and by such ales as those of Boniface that country 
blockheads were developed. No one has better depicted the squire of the 
last century than Henry Fielding : if the hare-coursing gentleman whose 
friends played sundry unseemly jokes upon Parson Adams is perfectly 
drawn, Squire Western is immortal. They are, indeed, fox-hunting, 
drink-loving and ill-mannerly brutes, but, though wicked, they are much 
more natural than Richardson's Mr. B. or Sir Charles Grandison. 
Congreve, in the Way of the World, gave his characterization of such in 
Sir Wilful Witwould, a "superannuated old bachelor" of Shropshire, 
whose favorite saying was " Wilful will do it." Farquhar, with skill 
second only to the best, presents his Squire Sullen — a man, as Boniface 
described him, who "says little, thinks less, and does — nothing at all, 
'faith ; but he's a man of great estate and values nobody." He loved 
cockfighting, racing and hunting ; "he plays at whisk, and smoaks his 
pipe eight and forty hours together sometimes." This amiable individual' 
was a justice of the peace, and had three thousand pounds a year, and as 
much land "as any he in the count)'." His greatest sorrow seems to 
have been that he could out-drink every man who came to Boniface's 
house, and, like Alexander, with no more worlds to conquer, he repined 
at his ill fate. A writer in the "Connoisseur" said of this kind of gentle- 
men, "They are mere vegetables, which grow up and rot on the same spot 
of ground, except a few, perhaps, which are transplanted into the Parlia- 
ment House. Their whole life is hurried away in scampering after foxes, 
leaping five-bar gates, trampling upon the farmer's corn, and swilling 
October." It should, however, be remembered that the same pen which 
gave us a Western was not less skilful in describing a Squire Allworth}\ 

It would be easy to run on till daylight with recollections such as 
these. But the songs in the taproom have ceased. Hobnails are grating 
on the pavement outside, as the happy ones go houie well laden, I pre- 
sume, with wine of John Barleycorn's making, and with jokes that were 
stale in Joe Miller's day. Night passes by apace, and we must to bed. The 
candle flickers before the mirror — a tallow candle, by the spirits of the 
ancients ! And there is a letter in it : good news, I opine, for it burns to 
the right. Now I recall that careful old knight who knew — 



76 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Which way best keep his candles, bran or straw : 
What tallow's lost in putting of 'em out 
By spittle, what by foot, what by the puff, 
What by the holding downwards, and what by 
The extinguisher ; which wick will lougest be 
In lighting, which spend fastest. 

This wisdom has passed from among men. I blow the candle out. 

And now dawns the day in which, as disciples of Izaak Walton and 
lovers of the angle, we shall traverse sacred ground and revel in time- 
hallowed associations. In Charles Cotton's language, we shall see an odd 
country and sights that will seem strange. The weather gives better 
hope than it did yesterday of continuing fine, and glad at heart and 
refreshed in body we ate our breakfast and prepared for the journey. We 
shall drive across country from Ashbourne to Bakewell, leaving our 
carriage at the " Peveril," while we proceed partly on donkeys and partly 
on foot through the Dale. The distance is about twenty miles; the roads, 
owing to the rains of yesterday, are probably heavy. 

By nine o'clock we are ready to start. Our landlady stands in the 
archway of the inn, and, bidding us farewell, presents us with a card on 
which are neatty engraved the words addressed by Mistress Killingley 
to Mr. Boswell. There is something pretty about this little ceremony, 
and the dignity and good humor with which it was done more firmly than 
ever establishes the hostess in our good esteem. A crack of the whip, 
and the horse- shoes rattle on the pavement and we pass out into the 
street. The driver was rather stolid and impassive : not one to encour- 
age conversation. Indeed, all day he made us feel that we were imposing 
upon him. He evidently did not care for the work which lay before him ; 
and though he was treated at every wayside inn, and on leaving was 
tipped more than double the usual fee, the gloom never passed from his 
face. Probably he will never cease believing he was grievously wronged 
in being sent with us to Bakewell. This was the more to be regretted 
because, when once in a while he answered our inquiries, he showed him- 
self thoroughly acquainted with the neighborhood, and possessed of an 
experience that would have helped us much. 

Going up the Butchers' Alley, we turned off the Market Place into 
a street leading up the hill into Offler's Lane. Many a generation of 
horses has suffered pulling up these hill-roads, but Offler's Lane, once so 
narrow that but one cart at a time could pass through, is now being 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 77 

widened, much, I am sure, to the convenience of everybody. The view 
of Ashbourne and the region thereabouts, from the rising ground back of 
the town, is very fine. From the Buxton highway, to our left, lay 
Mappleton and Okeover, the meadows, orchards and woods appearing 
soft and beautiful in the warm sunlight. Our road at Sandy Brook Hall 
crossed a pretty stream — which was once, I believe, called Bentley Brook 
— and continued along the side of a well-timbered hill until we reached 
the "Dog and Partridge" public-house, three miles from Ashbourne, 
where we turned to our left for Thorpe. Before reaching this point, 
however, we came up to a man and boy feeding donkeys by the wayside. 
The man was tall, thin and old, with a blear in his eye, and, owing to 
his loss of teeth, with an impediment in his speech. He looked as 
though he inherited the simplicity of those country folk who a hundred 
years ago believed there was a statute which obliged the owners of asses 
to crop their ears, lest the length of them should frighten the horses 
which they should meet on the road. Further acquaintance with the man 
relieved him of this suspicion, and with half an eye one could see that 
his asses' ears were as uncut as were those that Apollo inflicted upon 
the Phrygian king. He spoke with pure Derbyshire dialect, and, touch- 
ing his cap, indeed, baring his grey hairs, asked us if we wanted a 
guide and donkey for the Dale. "Too wet to walk, sir," he said. The 
question was how far the donkey could sink in the mud and we keep our 
feet dry ; a trial only could decide. So after determining that both he 
and his animals were safe, we directed him to meet us an hour hence at 
the "Peveril." 

We were soon driving up from the highway to that time-honored 
house known as the " Peveril of the Peak.'' It is built of timber in the 
Tudor style, and is set in grounds which, like itself, both inside and out- 
side, please the artist as well as the utilitarian. Its hospitality is known 
unto all men. Our horses are taken to the stable, and refreshments are 
provided for us. And now, while for an hour or so we rest under the 
verandah of this gentle hostelry, let me tell you something about that 
good fisherman and author, Izaak Walton, whose memory haunts and 
hallows the scenes into which we are about to go. If I linger over the 
story, it is because I dearly love the character : 

Walton, crime it were to leave unsung 

Thy gentle mind, thy breast unblanch'd by wrong ; 

And, vivid glowing on the graphic page, 

Thy guileless manners and thy hallowed age. 



78 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

He was born at Stafford, August 9, 1593, but beyond the fact that he 
became an orphan at the age of four years, nothing is known of him till 
he had nearly attained his majority. He was then in London serving his 
apprenticeship to a haberdasher; and again, for some years, he passes into 
more or less obscurity. Over those early days, therefore, where so much 
must needs be speculation, we shall not tarry. 

For many years had he done business, first in Fleet Street and then 
close by in Chancer}' Lane, as a linen-draper and sempster, when, in 1640, 
his wife, Rachel, a great great-niece of Archbishop Cranmer, died. Al- 
ready was the peaceable, quaint and lovable tradesman w T ell known beyond 
that class to which he properly belonged. Bishops and divines frequented 
his house, and were pleased to call him their friend. This was due, not 
only to his own beauty of character, his love of letters and of clergy men f 
and his success in business, but also to his wife's connections, and possibly 
to the fact that, as much millinery was then used in men's costumes, so 
many gentle folk resorted to a shop which was one of the best in London. 
He was also a parishioner and an intimate associate of Dr. Donne, the 
dean of St. Paul's Cathedral and the vicar of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West, 
who doubtless introduced Walton to many of his own acquaintance. No 
one better than Izaak knew how to win and to keep a friend. He seems 
to have drawn out the affection and esteem of all with whom he came in 
contact ; nor was the admiration misplaced. The man was pure, honest, 
thoughtful and loyal. 

Perhaps to none more than to Dr. Donne is owing the development of 
his character. That eminent divine, who justly ranks in his age as first 
among its most eloquent and powerful preachers, greatest scholars and 
best-loved poets, was one of those mighty and magnetic souls which 
attract and influence for good all around them. "I am his convert," says 
Walton. His sermons, fluently and melodiously delivered, were full of 
grace, scriptural lore and practical sense. Some of them are still famous, 
and that one preached in 1622, before the Virginian company, has been 
described as ' ' the first missionary sermon printed in the English lan- 
guage." He was well known at Court, both as the chaplain, once of 
James I and afterwards of Charles I, and as a man of singular piety and 
spiritual insight. " His marriage was the remarkable error of his life," 
says Walton ; and the gentle biographer speaks pityingly, for he remem- 
bered the fate of Richard Hooker, and cared little for a married clergy. 
This only fault was offset in Izaak's estimation by the virtue of being a 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 79 

good angler, and not unlikely many a time he accompanied that expert 
fisherman in his piscatorial excursions. Walton had just finished the 
of this good man, now dead some eight or nine years, when his own wife 
died. Dr. Johnson claimed that this Life was the most perfect of all which 
Walton wrote, and it has been called the best piece of biography in the 
language. 

One of the dearest friends of Dr. Donne was the saintly George 
Herbert, who survived him but a short while, and whose life was written 
nearly forty years later by Walton. The ministry of Herbert at Bemerton 
is memorable, and his poem, " The Temple," will ever rank high both as 
a work of genius and as an expression of the spirit of Anglicanism. 
Walton's regard was great for a book which was so closely after his own 
heart, and which evidently exerted a strong influence in his life. He not 
onby in the " Compleat Angler" quotes the exquisite gem beginning 
"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright," but he also, in his "Life ot 
Donne," pronounces this eulogy : "A book in which, by declaring his own 
spiritual conflicts, he hath comforted and raised many a dejected and dis- 
composed soul, and charmed them into sweet and quiet thoughts ; a book, 
by the frequent reading whereof, and the assistance of that spirit that 
seemed to inspire the author, the reader may attain habits of peace and 
piety and all the gifts of the Holy Ghost and Heaven ; and may, by still 
reading, still keep those sacred fires burning upon the altar of so pure a 
heart as shall free it from the anxieties of this world and keep it fixed 
upon things that are above." It was with feelings of gratitude and 
reverence that Walton said of Herbert, "I wish (if God shall be so 
pleased) that I may be so happy as to die like him." 

In 1646, the wifeless and childless Izaak, now fifty-three years of age, 
married Anne, the daughter of Thomas Ken, an attorney in the Court of 
Common Pleas, and a connection of a family of the same name and of 
some condition in the West of England. Anne was the fourth child of 
her father's first wife ; he had again married, in 1625, this time a widow, 
daughter of John Chalkhill, favorably known in his day as the friend of 
Spenser and the author of Thealma and Clearchiis, a. poem of some merit, 
and which as late as 1678 was edited by Izaak Walton. Among the 
children of this second marriage was one born at Berkhampstead, in 1637, 
named Thomas, after his father, and destined to be the bishop of Bath and 
Wells, and one of the most saintly prelates of the Church of Kngland. 
Ken's second wife, however, died not many months after Walton's first 



So WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

wife, and Anne was left to keep her father's house and to care for her half- 
brother, now scarcely four years old. After her marriage to Walton she 
still continued to act the part of a mother to Thomas. The tie was further 
strengthened by the death of his and her father in 1651. 

The lad fills such a place of dignity in the annals of England that I 
cannot refrain from further mention of him. The circumstances which 
environed him, though occasioned by sad causes, were favorable to his 
mental and spiritual development. Anne, as her husband lovingly 
affirmed, was " a woman of remarkable prudence, and of the primitive 
piety." She was an intelligent and a loyal churchwoman, and with her 
husband clung to the Church of England, at a time when sectarian malig- 
nity had almost reduced it to despair and death. Skilful in song and in 
music, and abounding in the graces of cheerfulness and affection, she 
made her home happy, and by gentleness, wisdom, and an example almost 
without a blemish, led on both husband and brother to the better life. The 
influence of Izaak upon the boy was scarcely less. From him would he 
learn to admire and to emulate the virtues of churchmen, such as Dr. 
Donne and George Herbert, and, by the interpretation given by one such 
as Walton of the glories of the past and the evils of the present, to suffer 
patiently for righteousness' sake, and to abhor the sins which led some to 
rebellion, and some to uncleanness. Probably Ken was giving his own 
experience when many years after he wrote : "I exhort all you who are 
parents to instil good things into your children as soon as ever they 
begin to speak ; let the first words they utter, if it be possible, be these, 
' Glory be to God : ' accustom them to repeat these words on their knees 
as soon as they rise, and when they go to bed, and ofttimes in the day ; 
and let them not eat or drink without saying, ' Glory be to God.' " Nor 
does imagination exceed reasonable probability when we picture the 
brother-in-law, our good Izaak, whose hair was now whitened with his 
threescore years, explaining to the youth collect, catechism and sacra- 
ment, the form and substance of the Book of Common Prayer, and the 
lessons of Holy Writ. Thus did the future bishop gather in his early 
days that love and appreciation of the Church of England, the knowl- 
edge of her history and doctrine, and those elements of holiness and 
devotion, which should make him one of her most saintly sons, and 
one of her greatest glories. 

The times were unpropitious for the cause which such men as Izaak 
Walton loved. Daily grew the strength of those who opposed and bated 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 81 

both the Crown and the Church. One need not question the sincerity of 
the Puritan. He believed himself to be in the right, and, further, that it 
was his duty and his privilege, he being for this purpose, as he supposed, 
specially chosen by the Almighty, to make all people think and do as he 
thought and did. It was not a question of freedom or toleration. He did 
not desire equal privileges with Churchmen ; nor was he content with 
permission to worship according to his own convictions. His design was 
to make his interpretation and practice of religion the only legal interpre- 
tation and practice; to compel Romanist, Anglican and everybody else to 
conform thereto, and to crush out of existence any system that differed 
from that in which he believed. He was, therefore, not one whit more 
enlightened in the matter of liberty than were they whom he opposed, and 
so soon as the strife between Cavalier and Roundhead had reached such 
proportions and assumed such definiteness that every man, woman and 
child in the kingdom was on one side or the other, he pressed the design 
of supremacy to a bitter and blood-stained conclusion. It is not neces- 
sary to trace in detail how, from the year 1640 to 1653, the L-ong Parlia- 
ment ceased not to remove everything that stood in its way. Grievous 
was the war between that parliament and its king — now in the council 
chamber, and now on the battlefield. Soon was the Earl of Stafford sent 
to the block, and the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Tower. Once it 
seemed that pity would keep them from shedding the blood of the aged 
and feeble prelate, against whom they had failed to prove a single charge 
deserving of either death or confinement ; but the Puritan shopkeepers of 
London put up their shutters, and refused to sell until justice, as they 
styled it, had been done to him. Then a man, whose only crime it was 
to have sought to save the Church of England from the errors of Geneva, 
and to restore to her the ancient discipline and ritual, was led to the 
scaffold. In 1649 the king, too, was beheaded, and England was declared 
a commonwealth. 

Long before this, not only had the bishops been deprived of their sees, 
and such clergy as refused to take the covenant and abjure the Church of 
England turned out of their parishes, professorships, or whatever position 
they filled — some 7,000 of them going out rather than bow the knee to 
Baal, — but the Book of Common Prayer was proscribed, and whoever was 
found using it, whether clerical or lay, was held guilty of misdemeanor, 
and liable to fine and imprisonment. The most fearful sacrilege was per- 
petrated in the parish and cathedral churches — altars were overthrown, 



S2 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE 

windows broken, vestments torn, fonts profaned, and, in short, everything 
that belonged to the worship and discipline of the Church was abused, 
and as far as possible destroyed. Parodies were made of the most sacred 
rites, and not unfrequently, as the parliamentarian soldiers quartered their 
horses in the chancels, and played cards in the sanctuary, so did the most 
unseemly strife between the sectarian preachers take place in the pulpit. 
The revenues of the Church were appropriated as the usurping authorities 
saw fit. The clergy themselves lived as best they could ; some struggled 
along on charity, some practiced medicine, some for a while taught school, 
and not a few went out of the country. 

It is easy to imagine what effect such a condition of affairs would 
have upon Izaak Walton. His obscurity saved him from the animosity 
of the ruling powers, and his tendency to quietness kept him out of the 
strife; but he must have been touched keenly to see the pulpit at St. 
Dnustan's, once filled by Dr. Donne, now occupied by a sectary, and to 
know that in the vestry of the parish, in which he had himself once 
served, was no less a personage than Mr. Praise God Barebones. There 
was, perhaps, something pleasingly primitive in the persecuted Church of 
England having to hold its services in secret places, and to dare the 
bitterness of confiscation and imprisonment ; but the tyranny of the 
oppressor outweighed that. Many years later Walton wrote : "When I 
look back upon the ruin of families, the bloodshed, the decay of common 
honesty, and how the former piety and plain dealing of this now sinful 
nation is turned into cruelty and cunning, I praise God that He prevented 
me from being of that party which helped to bring in this covenant, and 
those sad confusions that have followed it." Dr. Donne and George 
Herbert, who had so greatly influenced Walton's life, were mercifully 
taken from the evil to come ; but that Ken should have had a like feeling 
with his brother-in-law is no wonder. He would regard with dislike the 
men who had stained their cause and their hands with the blood of an 
archbishop and a king. But neither Walton nor Ken knew that the future 
would reveal evil done greater than even this. " The greatest calamity 
that everbefel us," wrote Archbishop Sancroft in 1687, " was, that wicked 
and ungodly men who murdered the father (Charles I,) likewise drove out 
the sons, as it were to say to them, ' go and serve other gods,' the dismal 
effects hereof we feel every moment." There is no doubt that the sins 
of Charles II and James II, and the sorrows which from those sins came 
to England, lie at the door of the Puritans. They compelled the princes 
to find refuge in, and to receive the training of, the court of France. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 83 

While outrages such as these were being perpetrated, and the Church 
of England lay suffering under the foot of the oppressor, Izaak Walton, 
having given up business, refreshed his own soul by preparing that work 
which stands among the classics of the language and is the chief of pas- 
torals, the Compleat Angler. With its delightful pages we who are about 
to enter into Dovedale should be familiar ; and though the book takes us 
from the busy and troubled haunts of men, and discourses of better 
things than Puritan ever dreamt of, yet in its lines may be detected the 
sad spirit of the age intermingling itself with the benign and gracious 
influence of Donne, Herbert and Ken. The first edition, consisting only 
of thirteen chapters, was published in 1653 — the year in which Blake 
destroyed the Dutch fleet at Texel and Cromwell was made Lord Protec- 
tor of England. There can be little doubt that the book was early read 
and lovingly appreciated, not only by many friends, but especially by Ken, 
who, though no expert of the angle, was an affectionate admirer of his 
good brother-in-law. Need one say much concerning a book which is in 
everybody's hand ? Its counsel concerning fishing is perhaps faulty and 
some of its theories of natural history occasion a smile, but nothing can 
equal the ' ' setting ' ' of the book, the songs, the quaint sayings, the 
happy quotations, the anecdotes and the style, which flows as placidly as 
a meadow-stream and is winsome as none but a pure, good-natured soul 
such as Walton could make it. With the world as it then was, Izaak had 
no sympathy and sought to have no concern. "When I would beget 
content," says he, "and increase confidence in the power and wisdom 
and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some 
gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and 
those very many other various little living creatures that are not only 
created, but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of 
nature, and therefore trust him." And sweet restfulness comes upon 
those who in the varied moods of mental life, by riverside or in the 
candle-lit study, read the page of this fascinating author. We go with 
him to Tottenham, to Theobalds, to the Thatched House at Hoddesden, 
to Bleak Hall on the Lea and to the George Inn at Ware ; we listen to 
the arguments of Piscator, and to the songs of the milkmaid ; and we 
hear Walton himself say: " No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy 
and so pleasant as the life of a well-governed angler ; for when the lawyer 
is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or con- 
triving plots, we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess 



84 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

ourselves in as much quietness as these silver streams which we now see 
glide by us." That Walton borrowed from others who before him had 
written upon fishing, especially from the excellent Dame Juliana Berners, 
is true ; so, too, did Shakespeare, and so did Bunyan, from their prede- 
cessors ; but the spirit is all his own, and none have woven together 
materials as beautifully and as lastingly as did he. Two years before the 
Compleat Angler was put out, Walton published the life of Sir Henry 
Wotton, who was a fisherman and a churchman after his own heart, and 
some of whose poems have been set like gems in Walton's work. 

Walk with me into this garden, and, as helpful to that calmness of 
spirit and other blessings which come from the contemplation of nature, 
I will further while away the time by reciting some verses of Sir Henry 
Wotton which were composed in a summer's evening on a bank a-fishing: 
a description of the spring, which Izaak quotes "because it glided as 
soft and sweetly from his pen as that river does at this time, by which it 
was then made : ' ' 

And now all nature seemed in love ; 

The lusty sap began to move ; 

New juice did stir the embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentines ; 

The jealous trout, that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled fly: 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Already were the eaves possessed 

With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest : 

The groves already did rejoice 

In Philomel's triumphing voice. 

The showers were short, the weather mild, 

The morning fresh, the evening smiled. 

Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail, and now 

She trips to milk the sand-red cow ; 

Where, for some sturdy football swain, 

Joan strokes a sillabub or twain. 

The fields and gardens were beset 

With tulips, crocus, violet : 

And now, though late, the modest rose 

Did more than half a blush disclose. 

Thus all look'd gay, all full of cheer, 

To welcome the new liveried year. 



WOODS AND DADES OF DERBYSHIRE. 85 

In such lines did our gentle fisherman delight, and though I do not 
know that he ever stood on this rising bank, yet I am sure that time and 
again he beheld the beauties of this region and under a sky as clear 
as that which we now enjoy. For, if he had been happy in the 
friendship of men such as those of whom mention has been made, and if 
in the fields far from the noise of towns he discovered that peace and 
hope which he so greatly needed, now was he most joyful in his intimacy 
with Charles Cotton, an ardent royalist, a scholar, and from his youth up 
a disciple of the pen and the rod. Cotton was lord of Beresford, the 
other end of the Dale, and so close was the friendship between him and 
Walton that, in the person of Piscator, he tells Viator: "I shall yet 
acquaint you further that he gives me leave to call him father and I hope 
is not yet ashamed to own me for his adopted son." Walton desired him 
to finish his treatise on fly-fishing, so that it might be added to the 
Compleat Angler ; and for all time together go the two parts done by 
these brothers of the line. Everybody knows of the fishing-house built 
by Cotton, over the door of which he engraved a monogram made of the 
initials of his own and Walton's name. The two men rambled over 
these parts of the country. Side by side they sought in the Dove's clear 
stream the golden and silver- scaled fishes, the grayling and the trout. 
There they watched the quivering of the lily leaves, the ripples on the 
flowing waters, the quickly shifting shade of clouds and trees ; and 
beneath the white and scented thorn, or on sward strewn with wildflowers, 
the master held sweet discourse with his pupil. Worthy were they of 
each other's love. Many a line wrote Cotton for which not a little praise 
is his due. He had his misfortunes ; he had also the esteem of his 
contemporaries. 

Charles Cotton was born April 28, 1630. His mother was a cousin 
of Sir Aston Cokayne, of whom something was said, perhaps a score or two 
pages back. The epitaph on this lady, written by Sir Aston, contains a 
prophecy concerning her son which was well fulfilled, and is worth 
reading : 

Passenger, stay, and notice take of her, 
Whom this sepulchral marble doth inter : 
For Sir John Stanhope's daughter and his heir, 
By his first wife, a Beresford, lies here. 
Her husband of a noble house was, one 
Everywhere for his worths belov'd and known. 



86 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

One only son she left, whom we presage 

A grace t' his family, and to our age. 

She was too good to live, and young to die, 

Yet stay'd not to dispute with destiny. 

But (soon as she receiv'd the summons given) 

Sent her fair soul to wait on God in Heaven. 

Here, what was mortal of her turns to dust, 

To rise a glorious body with the just. 

Now thou mayst go ; but take along with thee 

(To guide thy life and death) her memory. 

Cokayne, whose fortunes were decaying, was nratherd of making of 
known his acquaintance with his cousin and, returning Cotton's praise 
with nattering interest, not only declared of his poetry : 

The world will find your lines are great and strong, 
The nihil ultra of the English tongue ; 

but ventured on a compliment such as this : 

Donne, Suckling, Randolph, Drayton, Massinger, 
Habington, Sandys, May, my acquaintance were ; 
Jonson, Chapman, and Holland I have seen, 
And with them, too, should have acquainted been. 
What needs this catalogue ? They are dead and gone, 
And to me you are all of them in one. 

Charles Cotton was indeed a man of brilliant and versatile genius ;. 
his poems have some excellence of imagery and language ; he was an 
horticulturist as well as an angler — expert both in catching fish and in 
growing trees ; he translated Montaigne, and numbered many of his 
greatest contemporaries among his friends ; but succeeding generations 
have not altogether agreed with the extravagant eulogy pronounced upon 
him by his cousin. But in these regions with his master Izaak he lives 
as a tutelary spirit, and I doubt if we shall wander through Dovedale 
without thinking more of these two men than of any other in the world, 
and picture them casting the fly into the limpid waters, or stringing trout 
together on a sprig of green willow. 

But our time at the Peveril is up. Here come the donkeys, two 
kindly stupid brutes, patient and sturdy, trotting up the road as though 
they had been using extraordinary diligence to get to us. They have 
some good qualities, so the old man says who brings them and who is to 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 87 

be our guide. They are small, therefore we are not far from the ground, 
and never have they been known to kick or perform any other disagree- 
able asinine trick. We mount, and after the driver has vigorously used 
his tongue and his cudgel, we start off across the fields toward that pyra- 
midal-looking mountain called Thorpe Cloud — bare and bleak, with a few 
crows and some sheep feeding on its steep declivities. Until this curi- 
ously-shaped hill is passed there is little or no sign or indication of the 
glory and romance about to be revealed. On the contrary, a feeling of 
loneliness and desolation comes upon one. The gathering clouds and 
moaning wind added to this somewhat uncanny sensation, and for the 
nonce I thought myself journeying through some deserted wild in the 
Scotch highlands, or wandering with Virgil toward regions where fear 
creeps close to the soul. The ground was in places soddened with the 
rains of yesterday, and progress through the " Sow Sitch," as the boggy- 
flat near Thorpe Cloud is called, was slow. As we pass between Thorpe- 
Cloud and Bunster, the two hills which stand like burly guardians at the 
portals of the valley, upon us come the sweeping wind and the driving rain. 
For a few minutes, so fierce was the blast, it was with difficulty we kept 
our seats on our restless and disturbed donkeys. The old man held on 
to the tail of mine, and thus sought to stay him from rushing headlong 
into some puddle and tipping me over. Fortunately the storm broke upon 
us from behind. No disaster occurred and soon the sky was again clear. 
We were now at that part of the river where it bends sharply away to the 
right. The Izaak Walton Hotel is further down the stream, toward the 
confluence of the Manyfold. 

From Sharplow Point we have one of the best views of the dainty, 
frolicsome Dove and the romantic valley through which it courses. The 
ancients generally thought of a river as a male : so do we when the flood 
becomes wide and deep and strong. Inachus with love for a Bithynian 
nymph flowed pale and warm throughout his cold fords ; and Alpheus 
pursued the lovely Arethusa until by the mercy of the gods she was trans- 
formed into a fountain ; but this silvery, gliding, dancing stream seems 
rather to be herself a fairy maiden or a joyous nymph, and to partake of 
all those winsome graces which belong, not so much to the sturdy man, 
as to the sweet and playful sylph. As I look upon these pretty waters, 
sparkling like golden eyes in the sunlight, suggesting pleasant conceits 
of youth and freshness and love, as well as of trout and angling and anglers, 
I wonder if the people of old ever came in the darksome eventide to say 



8S WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

their prayers on the river's brink, and to watch the glimmering of the 
torches on the tiny wavelets. I confess it is not easy to think such things 
while seated on this rickety donkey, but he is very patient and very slow, 
and arrows fly far in the time he takes to move his four feet. There must 
be a goddess in this brook — a sweet water-sprite, who to lovers sings kind, 
melancholy songs, and to every heart brings the music of the meadow 
and the hill-spring. The scenery of the Dale has more of the wild and 
royal nature of the eagle, than of the docility and homeliness of the dove. 
It is neither stupendous nor magnificent, sublime nor awful, being upon 
a scale too small for such conceptions, and yet one does not expect to see 
hills and rocks cast in such rugged and picturesque fantasy outside of 
Scotland or of Switzerland — though, by the way, I do not know that in 
either of these countries there is a bit of landscape with quite the charm 
of this glen. The seclusion is perfect — far more so than either the track 
beside the stream, or the beasts used for the transportation of travellers. 
The world seems completely shut out, not as in the ravine of the Gonda 
to the terror of the soul, but as in a garden of delights to its comfort 
and ease. The winding gorge hides from view the end, and both sug- 
gests delightful mystery and makes a beautiful setting for the radiant 
stream. Like a broad thread of turquoise, pearl, emerald or silver, as the 
light falls upon it, it lies and lives among the trees and flags, the mossy 
heights and the deep grass banks. Within its clear swift waters wildly 
flow the long weed fronds, and ever and anon eddies ripple and foam 
around an islet or off a jutting point. The running stream will suffer no 
evil-doer in it — so said the men of old — it is pure, clean and sacramental ; 
and on the banks of the river you may think of the little maiden Lucy, 
who once dwelt among the "untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove ;" 
but of nothing less sweet and lovely. Good Izaak would agree with this, 
only he saw beauty in the glittering scales of a fish as true as in the eyes 
of a girl, and to him beauty never lost its pristine character ; but I con- 
fess, from the time I passed the stepping-stones till now that I recall 
Cotton's apostrophy, I had forgotten rods and lines, and frogs and worms, 
and pike and trout. I am positively sure that I could not put a cold, 
slimy reptile on a hook as though I loved him ; and at this moment, oddly 
enough, I remember how the wise Gargantua admonished his filial prodigy 
to learn for what fish every sea and river and even smallest stream is 
noted ; though I fancy that fish-stories were not common in Rabelais' day 
and land, or surely Pantagruel would have outcapped the most inveterate 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 89 

weaver of romance. But nobody ever reads Rabelais in this Dale, and he 
who thinks for more than a moment of him must be elsewhere than on a 
stumbling ass. And the sweet Dove flows on, increasing in grace and 
beauty all the time. Out came the burst of Cotton's muse : gentle reader 
do not skip his lines. The river is worthy of even better praise : 

Oh my beloved nymph ! fair Dove ; 
Princess of rivers, how I love 

Upon thy flowery banks to lie ; 

And view thy silver stream, 
When gilded by a summer's beam 
And in it all thy wanton fry 

Playing at liberty, 
And with my angle upon them 

The all of treachery 
I ever learnt, industriously to try. 

I do not know that Cotton ever travelled over Europe, but he goes on to 
say — his enthusiasm will need no excuse if you know Dovedale : 

Such streams Rome's yellow Tyber cannot show, 
Th' Iberian Tagus, nor Ligurian Po ; 

The Meuse, the Danube, and the Rhine 
Are puddle-water all compar'd with thine ; 
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 

With thine, much purer, to compare ; 
The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine, 

Are both too mean, 
Beloved Dove, with thee 

To vie priority ; 
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, 
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 

It is curious that the rough and broken path through the dale has 
not been mended, but, perhaps, it is thought that as it is it harmonizes 
better with the surroundings and does not acknowledge any rights of way. 
The valley is private property, and it is only by the grace of the owners 
that strangers traverse it ; nevertheless, every stranger who comes won- 
ders why it is notjmade more convenient — an illustration of a proverb too 
homely to quote. As we jog along we pass other tourists, some on foot 
and some on donkeys, and not a few affording amusement to the looker on. 
One couple interested' us very much. They were, evidently, man and 
wife, good-humored, happy, and approaching that stiffening and broaden- 



9o WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

ing period of middle life when the bodily movements are slow and digni- 
fied. Knees and arms do not bend then as pliably and readily as in 
earlier years. He was seated on a donkey several sizes too small for his 
bulky and plump body. On his head was a high, silk hat, and he wore 
a great coat which was open and the skirts of which were spread over the 
hinder parts and tail of the donkey. His trousers were turned up, and 
over the tops of his boots several inches of brown stocking were visible. 
Under his arm he carried an umbrella. Judging from appearances he had 
never before been in such an adventure. With both hands he held grimly 
and earnestly to the bridle, and his knees were stuck desperately into the 
sides of the animal he was astride of. The poor donkey was not likely to 
run away even with such an inexperienced rider, but the man, as his open 
mouth and eyes and the contortions of his face showed, was in momentary 
fear of being dashed to the ground, and thus of painfully terminating his 
earthly career. I am pretty sure he neither thought of poetry or fishing, 
nor beheld the beauties of Dovedale ; possibly he did not remember even 
John Gilpin or Sancho Panza. His determination, doubtless, was that if 
Providence gave him safe deliverance, never again would he enter upon 
another such perilous exploit. Few pictures could have been more comi- 
cal. His wife, a neat, trim body, the disposition of whose dress I had 
better say nothing about, though evidently unaccustomed to such feats — 
equestrian, I imagine, as well as asinine — nevertheless did better. She 
was cooler and less troubled about the destiny of the donkey. So they 
trotted along, winning an experience that for the rest of their days would 
cheer their hearts with a consciousness of valor and heroism, and give to 
all who saw them occasion for much merriment. 

Before we had time to recover our customary gravity we met a whole 
family, father, mother, three daughters and one son. They came along 
in single file, and though the first rider — a maiaen of perhaps a score and 
half of years, wearing spectacles and wrapped tightly in black waterproof 
— looked solemn and serious, the others laughed gaily and loudry over 
their own stumblings and at the contortions of the driver who led the first 
donkey. There are two or three fishermen casting the fly over the waters 
— trout are still to be had. But the farther we go the more impressive 
becomes the scenery. One does not wonder that Dovedale was the 
"happy valley " of Rasselas. Had Dr. Johnson been the owner he would 
have built an arch from rock to rock over the stream, with a summer-house 
upon it ; luckily the lexicographer could only trudge on foot through the 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 91 

Dale. The tors, which reminded Jean Jacques of Jura peaks, have both 
names and legends, of some of which the guide informs us as we go along. 
There is a Lovers' Leap, as there is also on the Dart and on many another 
stream in England, not, to be sure, so bold and stern as the Leucadian 
cliff from which Sappho, and later Artemisia, love-despairing, threw 
themselves into the sea, nor yet so terrible as that precipice in the Guadal- 
horce, from which Manuel and Laila met their death, but it is sufficient 
for the purpose. Tradition tells of a young girl who here thought to put 
an end to a life in which love had played some unhappy pranks. She 
came to the brink, said her prayers and jumped off; but either her dress 
caught in a bush or the water was not deep enough, for she changed her 
mind, repented, went home, and for the rest of her days, which were 
many, lived in sober and exemplary maidenhood. 

Seven miles the other side of Bakewell, near Middleton, at the 
entrance of a dale, is another Lovers' Leap. It is a high precipitous 
rock, and legend affirms that about the year 1760, from its lofty summit, 
a love-lorn damsel, of the name of Baddeley, cast herself into the depths 
below. She, too, escaped the death she sought. Her face was disfigured 
and her body bruised, but the brambles and the rocky projections broke 
her fall, and though bereft of part of her garments, she was able to walk 
home with little assistance. Her escape healed the wounds that love had 
made. She kept herself from such nonsense ever after, and she died 
unmarried. Perhaps this is the same story which is told of the Lovers' 
Leap in Dovedale, but did not Sargon's mother entrust her son to a basket 
on a river, and is that any proof that Jochebed did not do the same ? 

A more serious affair happened in Dovedale further toward Reynard's 
Cave, I believe, though some say it was about Sharplow Point. On the 
July of 1 76 1, on his return from a picnic, Dr. Langton, Dean of Clogher, 
a member of an old Lincolnshire family, though he came from the Emer- 
ald Isle, proposed to force his horse up the steep sides of the dale so that 
he might the speedier reach Tissington. Anything more foolishly daring or 
more daringly foolish cannot well be thought of. However, a young lady, 
a Miss La Roche, shared both his horse and his folly. She seated herself 
behind him, and he spurred the horse up the perilous ascent. For a few 
moments it seemed as though the madcap feat could be accomplished. 
Then, when perhaps two-thirds of the distance was covered, either the 
poor animal swerved or the dean, desparing of success, attempted to turn 
him, and in an instant the three were overthrown. A fearful scene fol- 



92 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

lowed. They came toppling down the crags and screes. Fortunately, the 
young lady's long hair caught in a thorn-bush and saved her from death, 
though she was picked up insensible, and remained so for some days. 
The horse, too, escaped with a few bruises ; but the clergyman was so 
hurt that he shortly died. He was buried in Ashbourne Church, where a 
monument is erected, as much to warn adventurous travellers of his fate, 
as to commemorate his memory. It is said that only the Sanday before 
he had preached in that church a sermon on the text : ' ' It is appointed 
unto men once to die, but after this the judgment." 

" Was his ghost ever seen ? " I ask the old man who now pulls along 
and now pushes along my donkey. " 'Ssh ! " he replies. But the heights 
are gloomy, even as the Drachenfels, and I do not know what might hap- 
pen when in the loneliness and darkness of the evening the wind murmurs 
and moans through the valley. There are probably bats and owls here- 
abouts, and there have been witches — indeed, the three wise women in 
Macbeth could easily have found in this Dale a spot weird and uncanny 
enough for any of their curious rites. The sobbing of the waters, too, 
would, in the gloaming, afford melancholy music. " You do not believe 
in ghosts, then?" "The parson says there bean't any such things." 
"But," I retorted, rather unwisely it afterward seemed to me, "you 
don't believe everything the parson says." I do not know what made 
me put such a wicked question, or even to suggest to this unsophisticated 
tender of asses that anybody ever doubted the utterances of the clergy. I 
do hope my reverend brethren will forgive me, for I am satisfied if any- 
body disputed my word I should be more than grieved at heart. Even 
when my opinions are assailed I am apt, metaphoricall)' speaking, to open 
the vials of — well, not ammonia water. However, there was the question, 
and plump and emphatic came the answer : " No, sir ; not by a long shot. 
Parsons are like donkeys ; they make a deal of noise when there is no 
occasion for it. Why, one of them once told me that Robin Hood could 
send off one arrow and then send off another that would catch up to the 
first, strike it and split it. " " No ! " " Fact, sir ; and if a man could do 
that, I don't see why the spirits of the dead shouldn't come back." 
"But," I asked, "what has that got to do with ghosts?" "That's a 
matter of opinion, sir." I observed a mischievous twinkle in the old fel- 
low's eye, and I am satisfied that if my brute of a donkey had only behaved 
himself I should have found out the connection. As it was, I came to the 
conclusion that if I escaped with my bones whole, there was nothing 
incredible either in the forester's achievements or in ghostly appearances. 








5: 

5- 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 93 

In due time we reached Tissington Spires — rugged, fissured, cathedral- 
like rocks, wrinkled by the rains and torn by the lightnings of unnumbered 
ages ; and here our donkeys, much to their joy, could go no further. I 
believe the wretch I was astride of chuckled as he turned his side to the 
fence, which here runs across the pathway, and thus intimated to me to dis- 
mount. If one would see the rest of the Dale there is no alternative. But 
the heavens are again overcast, the river is leaden-hued and the ground is 
wet. We did not know anything about this fence when we started ; that 
was a secret left to time to reveal. These gentle donkey- drivers refrain 
from unduly worrying the strangers whom they take in — into the Dale, I 
mean. However, unless we make the best of it and walk, we shall miss 
some of the prettiest scenery and come short of the haunts of old Izaak. 
The guide seeks to soothe my perturbed spirits by pointing out the Abbey 
Rock on the opposite side of the valley — a really curious illusion that in the 
moonlight would make one fancy one saw the tower and walls of a church, 
buttressed, ivy-mantled and pierced with lancet-shaped windows. Close 
by are the buildings of the brotherhood, the cells, refectory and dormitory. 
There are also, further away, the Twelve Apostles, half-hidden in the 
masses of foliage, St. Peter standing foremost, as though he would step 
into the river or walk upon the waters as he assayed of old to do. When 
I think of that fence I almost wish a bumble-bee would mistake the 
donkeyman's nose for some flower, only I should not like to see even a 
poor bee made a fool of. As for the lord of the manor who had the fence 
put there, it might do him good were the fairies who haunt the Dale to 
pinch him into a cold sweat. I feel desperately malignant. Man} 7 of the 
rocks are inaccessible — especially these called Tissington Spires ; inaccess- 
ible, that is to say, to all except boys and squirrels. Legend tells of three 
boys who tried to climb the highest of them. There on a solitary ash 
near the summit a kestrel built her nest — prize worth scratched hands and 
rent trousers. Two of them soon found themselves in a place where .they 
could neither ascend nor descend. Then they cried out, and to the rescue 
were brought from a neighboring church the ropes used for lowering 
coffins into the grave. By means of these the youngsters were safely 
drawn up out of danger. The third lad was in like difficulty, but when 
it was proposed to haul him up in the same manner he exclaimed : ' ' Coffin 
ropes ! I'll risk my life sooner. You hang your legs over the brink, and 
I'll swarm up them." And the scapegrace did swarm up them, and was 
saved. 



94 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

There is no reason to suspect that our donkeys will stray from the 
fence while we proceed to trudge further through the Dale ; wise and 
docile, they will gather thistles and enjoy the quietude. The best part of 
the valley indeed lies along that footpath which no ass may tread. Nothing 
can be prettier than the " straits," as the narrowest part of the valley is 
called. When the waters are high, even the only path through, that on 
the Derbyshire side, is impassable. Happy are they who have the sun- 
shin when they go this way ; happier still they who behold the foliage 
and the streamlet lighted up by broken fragments of sun rays falling ever 
and anon through the cloud-rifts. One can abide long in this exquisite 
spot, and imagination will find itself outstripped by the perfect and lovely 
scenery. It is the bit of Dovedale which the artists delight to reproduce. 
There is not much beyond this. After the Dove Holes — three caverns — 
are passed, Mill Dale begins ; and in Mill Dale the views are tame. A 
long way further than Mill Dale is Beresford Dale, and there may be found 
the Hall and the Fishing House of which strangers have heard so much, 
but of which, curiously enough, our guide knew nothing. Dearly should 
we have loved to have seen Pike Pool with its odd-looking rock, which 
Viator declared to be "one of the oddest sights that ever I saw." Dearly, 
too, should we have liked to have gone into the little old room where long 
ago Izaak and his disciple, Charles Cotton, smoked their pipes and fried 
their trout, heedless of the fearful political squabbles going on elsewhere. 
But this was a joy not for us. We must go back to our mutton, or rather 
to our donkeys. Tradition says that in one of the caves in Mill Dale an 
old woman lived. She was presumably not of cleanly habits, for, though 
she had the river for a lavatory, when she was asked how long it was 
since she last washed herself, she replied, " Well, a' 11 not be quite sartain 
whether it were last summer or t'summer afore." I rather fancy the 
ancient dame was laughing in her sleeve. 

Our patient beasts are ready for us. " But, my good man, are there 
no ghosts in the Dale ? Did nobody ever see one here ? " "I have only 
heard of one, sir. " " Without joking ? " " Yes, sir ; and I'll tell you of 
it for an extra pint." " You shall have a quart if it's a good one." So 
the old fellow walks by my side with his hand on my donkey's bridle, 
and with many interruptions, owing to the roughness of the way, he told 
his story. There was after all not much in it — nothing that would interest 
either a folklorist or a psychologist ; in fact, ghosts are very commonplace 
affairs. The only thing interesting was that when the body of the woman, 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 95 

whose spirit wandered beneath the shadows of the cliffs, was found in the 
river, the fishes had partly devoured it. Everybody knows that the 
Roman nobles occasionally gave a slave to the eels in their vats, and it is 
said that were one to fall into a shoal oi mackerel, one would speedily be 
nibbled up ; but it is hard to think such things of the gentle trout in the 
Dove. Beside that, a ghost is nothing. I could believe that the fairies 
dance on the lily leaves, and the spirits sitting on the shore accompany 
them with the delectable music and pretty sparks of flint and steel and 
tinder-box ; but I cannot believe that the offspring of Izaak Walton's fish 
would attempt to eat up a woman who was thrown in the water with her 
throat cut. But the donkeyman did not hold trout to be any more kindly 
in their spirit or choice in their food than are rats. Besides, did not this 
woman's ghost tell the parson who came to lay her, that her body was 
tangled and bound among the weeds at the bottom of the river, and that 
the fish-bites hurt her more than ever had either corns or tight boots. 
"Stuff and nonsense," I exclaimed. "But," retorted he, " the woman 
walked the earth because her body wasn't at rest. She was being eat up." 
' ' Well, but had she been in her grave the worms would have eaten her. ' ' 
But the blear-eyed ancient was not to be daunted : " Worms be worms 
and fish be fish ; and there's a difference." So he had his quart of ale, 
and when we parted at the " Peveril," he bade us farewell with the air of 
a man who had not only done his duty, but had also shown to poor and 
untaught strangers the utmost consideration. 

While our horses were being brought out, and our grave driver was 
preparing himself for further sorrows and trials, we took a peep at the 
little church of Thorpe : ivy-clad, and though itself poor, yet adding 
beauty to the landscape. Had we had time we would have gone over to 
Ham, had it been only to have seen. the place where it is said Congreve 
wrote some scenes of his " Old Bachelor ; " but this was impossible, and 
I fear that no proof of the tradition is forthcoming — though, to be sure, 
that lump of mischief in the shape of a lady's maid, L,ucy, recommended her 
love-sick mistress to strike the old bachelor home before the bait was worn 
off the hook: " He nibbled fairly yesterday, and, no doubt, will be eager 
enough to-day to swallow the temptation." Perhaps the dramatist had 
tried to tempt some aged and experienced denizen of the Many fold. He 
wrote in dull, dark times — wicked, so some say, when people did more 
than wear wigs, and buy oranges at sixpence a piece ; nobody reads him 
except by candle-light, "and see, the owls are fled, as at the break of 



96 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

day." Perhaps were we to look around, even in this age of light, we 
might still find left a few of those self-same owls. Let me pluck a rose 
from this thickly- budded bush : " What is it to read a play on a rainy 
day ? " The fragrance is refreshing— I mean the fragrance of the flower. 
A gentleman, elderly, rotund and rubicund, is sitting in the porch of the 
Inn. He looks like a fisherman ; indeed, fishermen are so common, and 
their stories so frequent, that we take little heed of them. But our driver 
tells us as we get into the carriage, that this man has this very morning 
brought home, undoubtedly from the Dove, three trout of extraordinary 
weight and size. I am afraid to give the figures. There are three grades 
of untruthfulness : a fib, a lie and figures ; and if I know it, I shall not 
record in these pages anything that might be thought to belong even to 
the white species. So down to the highway we turn, and begin our drive 
across country to Bakewell. 

The journey was not of high interest. Once in a while our road 
dropped into a dale, and then the scenery was picturesque enough, but for 
the most part it lay across the hills or moors, and they are almost tree- 
less, and, consequently, bleak and dreary. Far away, once in a while, 
appeared a bit of fair landscape, and as we went over several miles ol the 
London turnpike we had associations that diverted our attention. I am 
not sure whether at Tissington— one of the sweetest villages in all Eng- 
land — the people still dress the well on Ascension Day ; nor do I know 
that I ever saw more peewits than appeared on some of the bare hill-tops. 
At New Haven Inn we stopped — the horses wanted some bran and water; 
the driver some ale. It took us about an hour to get from the Peveril to 
this roadside resort, a relic of the old coaching days, and said still to be 
commodious for man and beast. Its glory has departed — unhappily, I am 
sure ; and so thought our driver — dear soul, who said he loved the old 
days, before the radicals and the railways came in, better than he cared for 
the best Burton, and remembered this Inn five- and- forty years ago. The 
coaches stopped here then: has not Matt Prior, in a certain ballad of his, 
called " Down Hall," said something about such places, and is there not 
an engraving in his pretty edition of 1733, that would as well suit Derby- 
shire as Essex ? I feel like brushing up my recollections of these hostel- 
ries as they were when those young scamps, Perigrine Pickle and Tom 
Jones, and the genial Mr. Pickwick, frequented them. Only I see about 
here no portly landlord, and no nobly proportioned hostess : saddest sign 
of all. A fair is still held at this Inn twice a year, and then some shadow 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 97 

of its former prosperity — rather a thin and ghost- like shadow, I fear — 
comes over the otherwise silent and desolate spot. A barmaid, plump and 
pretty, as barmaids always are in England, comes to get the shilling for 
the refreshment tendered the horses and the coachman. 

Thence we drove in the direction of Youlgreave, and without going 
into the town, which for beauty of situation is scarcely inferior to Ash- 
bourne itself, we saw the tower of its grand old church. A few miles 
further we found Bakewell, the metropolis of the Peak. Not even now 
did our driver relax any of the severity of his countenance or manner. 
He had been wronged in some way or other, and was now going through 
one of the bitter trials of his life ; for which we had had to suffer. When 
he put us down at the Rutland Arms we at once tipped him, and bade 
him farewell. 

Now the Rutland Arms — formerly called the White Horse — is one of 
those comfortable, old-time, and home-like inns which are still to be 
found in the country districts of England, and in which one may take 
one's ease and be merry. But the Rutland Arms is one of the 
sleepiest of them all. Our horses made noise enough as they came 
up to the front door, and we looked somewhat imposing — that is to say, 
for folks from America and in such a place as this ; but nobody came 
either to help us to alight or to welcome us. Neither man nor woman 
was to be seen. We walked into the hall — bundles on the chairs, hats and 
coats on the rack, fishing rods about everywhere. We peeped into the par- 
lors, knocked on doors, coughed, kicked the floor, but not a body appeared. 
This looked unpromising for people who for some hours had not eaten 
anything. The funniest part of it was that our driver had gone off, and 
in the street in front of the house, and in the lane on either side of the 
house, we could discover nothing but a pig and a few sparrows. The good 
people had evidently either gone to church or to bed. This suspense 
lasted well nigh half an hour. Then we heard a door slam, and after a 
while a stout, red-armed Irish damsel entered the hall. " Could we have 
anything to eat ? " This girl was not pretty, by the way ; she was stu- 
pidly indifferent to our hungry appeal. We repeated our question, while 
she without noticing us looked at the clock : it was about the hour of four. 
" Did you give any order ? ' ' she demanded. "No, we saw no one to give 
any order to." " Well, then, there's nothing but cold meat; and if you 
want that, go into the breakfast room." " Which is " — but the gentle 
creature had disappeared. However we made a venture: happily the 



9S WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

right one, judging from a cloth and lately- used knives and forks on the 
table. Ten minutes pass — among the longest minutes we have ever suf- 
fered. By and bye our Irish friend came in. " What can I do for you ?" 
We were at her mercy. I should judge that she had been caught from 
the wilds of Kerry, not longer than three months since. "My good 
girl," said I, and the rose hue on her cheek grew deeper, and her mouth 
wider, almost a smile ; " My good girl, we have had a long drive. In an 
hour and a half we must take the train. We want to see the church. 
We are hungry. Give us some cold meat, bread, pickles, ale, Burton or 
ginger, it doesn't matter which. Bakewell pudding " — "Haven't any." 
"Well, bring us anything and everything you have; only be quick." 
In due time we had a substantial meal set before us : cold, but good as 
good could be, and as a homely proverb saith, " Hunger makes hard 
bones sweet beans." We were left alone to enjoy it; not a sound 
occurred to disturb our peace. We ate, and thanked God for the Rutland 
Arms. 

I do not know that this is the inn at which Edward Browne, once 
physician to Charles II, stayed in the September of 1662. Times have 
changed. But if we had no civil and careful host to give us the best 
accommodations the country could afford, as had Master Browne, we cer- 
tainly found as much enjoyment not only in the edibles given us, but also 
in a gun of good ale. If the reader does not know of how much a gun 
consists, perhaps he will judge us more leniently. By the time we 
finished our repast we were far from thinking this a barren country, as 
did the traveller just mentioned ; nor did we agree with Becon, who more 
than a hundred years earlier pronounced it a rude district, and its clergy 
superstitious and ignorant. In truth, I do not think we troubled about 
the clergy at all, we were so comfortable ; and the trencher was unscraped, 
too. There is a Peacock Inn near South Wingfield — perhaps only less 
famous than the one at Rowsley — where Dick Turpin once stopped to 
have his horse reshod, and where John Wesley and his wife Dolly also 
stayed. I do not know that the highwayman and the preacher had any 
acquaintance with each other, but the story runs that when John Wesley, 
passing through the kitchen, saw the cook hammering and beating a beef- 
steak intended for his meal, he was so vexed at the wanton toughening of 
the meat that he ordered his horse to be put in his gig and departed — as 
foolish as was he who shod the goose. Now if Mr. Wesley took his wife 
off without her breakfast, is it any wonder that his married life was 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 99 

unhappy ? Poor Richard Turpin, that daring depredator, as the Newgate 
calendar styles him, came to the gallows, but he never would have treated 
a woman so. And it is only when one's stomach is well filled and one's 
mind is at ease, that life can be really enjoyed ; and that was our condi- 
tion when we rose from the table and went out into that silent hall. 
We were at peace with the world, and we would have said kind 
things even to the ghost of old Izaak or to the maid from lovely Hibernia, 
had either been presented to our vision. But the hall was still as ever. 

What could we do ? Nobody in a happy frame of mind desires to 
go away without paying the bill ; nothing, indeed, marks character more 
than that, and innkeepers are apt to think ill of people who neglect to 
remunerate them for their trouble. But here was no bill, and no one to 
get a bill from or pay a bill to. We rattled a walking- stick along the 
banisters of the stairs. We called "Mary." We kicked the bottom 
stair-step. And all was still. Perhaps by the time we have seen the 
church and the town somebody may be about. These are the most trust- 
ful of people. Never before or elsewhere were travellers so thoroughly 
left to themselves. 

So out into the clean and hushed street we went. There was no one 
about, not even a woman peering over the half-door at the strangers. 
We came to the conclusion that the town had gone to a funeral ; but to 
reach this conclusion required some effort, for the place contains about 
2,500 inhabitants, and is renowned for its extreme healthfulness. A 
thousand years and more ago its baths were resorted to for their medicinal 
properties ; hence its name Badecanwyllan, from which the plain and 
prosaic " Bakewell " is both derived, and, as sometimes happens to 
ancient families, reduced. People still come here, as of old did Roman 
civilians and centurions, to be relieved of their rheumatism ; the old 
churchyard is of considerable extent, and there is a cemetery tow T ards 
Barton Moor. Very possibly, some confiding patient is this afternoon 
being taken to the place where suffering is unknown. Hence our com- 
fort in walking undisturbed and unnoticed through these quaint, old- 
fashioned streets, which, by the way, are as neat and clean as well-kept 
garden-paths. And there are flowers — towering hollyhocks, at least — 
in front of the cottages on the way up to the church. Everything 
betokens the age and respectability of the town ; nor do I suppose that, 
except to make necessary repairs and to rebuild the houses when they 
could no longer be propped up, anything for a millennium has happened 



ioo WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

to disturb the still life or to advance the growth of the place. As Mr. 
John Pendleton, who knows more about Derbyshire than any other per- 
son living, says : " Bakewell seems perfectly satisfied with itself, and 
perhaps would not, if it could, emerge from its ancient chrysalis into a 
city of stucco, and tramcars, and late hours." This is simply and inex- 
pressibly delightful, and if Bakewell be the principal market town of 
North Derbyshire, it affords a happy proof that there is yet a region in 
England as undisturbed b}' the rush and turmoil of modern life as the 
most thorough lover of peace and antiquity could wish. 

Bless my soul ! Here is a boy — a real, live boy, too ; right in the 
gateway leading up to the church. His thumbs are in his waistcoat arm- 
holes, so that I judge he has not yet known the luxury of pockets in his 
trousers. He has no coat, and only a bit of a cap, which scarcely covers 
his long and uncombed hair. " My lad, what place is this ? " His eyes 
and mouth open wider, but he says nothing. " Is this Bakewell?" 
" It be, sir." " Thank you. Now can you tell me if there is likely to 
be anybody up at the church to show people around ? " "I don't know, 
sir. There be nothing going on there, except on Sunday." " Oh, you 
must be mistaken." " If I be, and you knowed better, why did you ax 
me ? ' ' And his nostrils dilated and his brow darkened as though he 
were about, bantam-like, to avenge an imputation against his veracity. 
" Well, my lad," said I, in my blandest tones, " I didn't mean that ; but, 
you know, we want to see the church, and unless there is somebody 
there we shall not be able to get in. Can you run up and see — for 
twopence — well, say sixpence? " The last-named sum softened him ; at 
the twopence he scarcely moved a muscle. The world has got into 
Bakewell somehow. Only a boy and a big churchyard ; nothing but the 
boy alive — and he knows the value of money. Away he moves, neither 
so swift as the swallow nor so graceful as the antelope ; we wait. In a 
few minutes he is back : " Yes, sir ; there's somebody there taking folks 
through." "Thank you. And now will you take six pennies or a 
silver sixpence ? " " Silver sixpence, please, sir." ' ' Why ? " " Because 
I should spend the other a penny at a time." " But they are heavier." 
' ' I know ; but they sink faster. ' ' Dear me ! No one can doubt that 
Bakewell will take care of itself. 

The church, which is dedicated to All Saints, has an octagonal tower 
and spire, and though the south transept is almost as long as the nave, 
and the north transept is little more than a continuation of the north 




y 



L. tf C. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 101 

aisle, yet the building may be roughly described as cruciform. It was 
restored about fifty years since ; enough has been said by others of the 
mischief at that time done, so that it needs only to be added that the 
main portion of the edifice dates from the early part of the twelfth cen- 
tury, the chancel from the middle of the thirteenth century, and the 
Vernon chapel from about 1360. A church was here much earlier, and 
bits of it may be seen in the walls of the present structure. Its position 
overlooking the town is commanding and picturesque, and that it has no 
history is the fault rather of the neighborhood than of itself. The only 
event recorded of it, besides funerals, is that in the year 1280 the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, finding that the deacon and sub-deacon were so ill- 
provided for that they were obliged to beg their bread, ordained that they 
should eat at the vicar's table. I feel sorry for the vicar : no one knows 
wfiy he, rather than the parishioners, should feed two hungry subordinates; 
but, perhaps, he was one whose purse was made of toad's skin. The 
curious thing is, that of the good men who ministered and worshipped 
here next to nothing is known ; only this feeding of the poor is recorded. 
No one, of course, will regard the hanging of three witches, in the year 
1608, as peculiar ; then, witches and wizards were so common that it was 
found necessary to curb somewhat supernatural powers ; now, wise folks 
are like timber trees in a hedge, here and there one. As we walk up 
to the church door, I wonder if that fasting girl, Martha Taylor, who 
once lived in this neighborhood, ever came here to service. We are 
sometimes as sceptical of fasting achievements as we are of fishing 
adventures, but a pamphlet, printed in 1668, declares that this damsel, 
then of the age of eighteen years, did not eat anything for fifty-two weeks. 
Once only did she swallow part of a fig, and that nearly killed her, so 
delicate were her digestive organs. She must, however, have gotten 
over this disinclination for food, for she lived till the year 1684. Not 
unlikely, she stayed at home, for people who go to church, like good 
Christian souls, nearly always take after the parson for beef and piety, 
and the wardens for port and pipes. 

The good woman who is both wife to the sexton and guide to the 
church knows her duties, at least, so far as the church is concerned, as 
well as did he who showed us about Ashbourne. Her voice is clear and 
pleasant, a pure intonation, her grammar is excellent, and her knowledge 
is extensive. I mention these particulars because we did not always find 
attendants to have such qualities. Her kindly and courteous manners, 

8 



102 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

indeed, reminded us of the young lady who three months earlier took us 
through Haddon Hall. She was describing to some strangers the monu- 
ments in the Vernon Chapel, when we entered, and after telling us that 
she would be free in a few minutes, she bade us interest ourselves with 
the tomb of a knight, Sir Thomas Wendesley, who, in 1403, was mortally 
wounded while fighting on the Lancastrian side at the battle of Shrews- 
bury. The alabaster effigy is the oldest one in the chapel, and in some 
respects the most remarkable one. The bones of the old warrior were in 
1 84 1 found under the tomb. Beside the monument to Sir Godfrey Fol- 
jambe and his wife, which is in the nave, on the altar-tomb adjacent to 
that of Sir Thomas Wendesley, lie the effigies of Sir George Vernon and 
his two wives. This is the Vernon who from his influence and wealth 
was known as the " King of the Peak" — a sturdy, stalwart and inde- 
pendent chieftain, lord of thirty manors in Derbyshire alone, hospitable 
as a prince, though given to severity, and the father of the famous 
Dorothy. He died in 1567 ; but the year is not given on the tomb, nor 
are the years of the death of his wives, perhaps owing to the custom, 
then not uncommon, of erecting the monument during the lifetime of the 
person it was intended to commemorate. The knight has upon him 
plate armor and a surcoat elaborately emblazoned with his own arms, 
with all its quarterings. He wears a straight, long beard and long hair. 
The Vernons, it will be remembered, were buried here because there was 
no place of sepulture in the chapel at Haddon Hall. To this parish 
church, in fact, Haddon belonged, and the hall, about two miles away 
down the valley, may be seen from the church door. 

But far more interesting than these is the stately monument to 
Dorothy Vernon and John Manners, and we are glad our guide has 
returned, and can now for a while give us her attention and help. I 
know of few things in this world that can more quickly destroy an ideal 
than does that monument. It is, indeed, pretentious and imposing. The 
coats of arms are elaborate ; that of Manners has sixteen quarterings. 
The cornice, frieze, pillars and ornaments betoken fair art and good work- 
manship. In the middle under an arch kneel John and Dorothy facing 
each other ; between them being a pedestal, on which are inscribed par- 
ticulars concerning them. Underneath, on the lower part of the monu- 
ment, are figures of four of their children. 

But when we look at the figures of the principal characters and learn 
that these may be taken as life-like representations, we wonder if this can 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 103 

be the Dorothy who, from the ball-room, tripped down the steps and 
through the terrace of Haddon Hall, and if this be the John for whom she 
ventured so much. I shall refer to the story later in these pages, for 
like most folks I have entered into its romance, and after all, for and 
against its truth, I prefer rather to accept it than give up a charming 
bit of social legend ; so that my feelings can be imagined when I behold 
a rather squat and fat and quite commonplace- looking figure for Dorothy; 
and for John, an effigy with a dolichocephalic head, the ugliest one may 
ever expect to come across. The space from the crown to the chin, and 
the retreating forehead, are phenomenal ; and when in 1841 the skull of 
Sir John was exhumed, it corresponded exactly with the sculpture. There 
is no accounting for tastes, but really it is difficult to imagine a man fall- 
ing in love with a woman like this Dorothy, or a woman falling in love 
with a man like this John. There is no beauty in either of them to be. 
desired, and my only hope is that this homely and prosaic couple were 
possessed of kindly hearts and generous souls, so that in deeds and in 
expression amends were made to them for their lack of physical beauty. 
The clay which went to make up their tabernacles may have been far 
from common, but it was badly moulded. It says something for the 
honesty of the people of those days that in their desire to praise the dead 
they should not have tried to have represented so rich a lord and lady a 
little more pleasingly. However, John and Dorothy are now unaffected, 
either by the chisel of the sculptor or the pen of the writer. To them has 
come the eternal love. 

"They may have been better looking in their young days," observed 
our guide. " She had auburn hair, and when their graves were opened 
some of it was found." " Do you think the ball-room story is true ? " I 
asked. " Oh, yes ! No one questioned it till the days of doubt began. 
Now, some people you can't get to believe anything, and, by and by, it 
will be denied that Dorothy ever lived. The runaway was most natural. 
They loved each other, and her friends didn't care for the match. And 
it was rather uncivil of him. He is only a second son, and she the 
heiress of 70,000 acres." The good woman changed the tense and spoke 
as though this were a present day affair. Clearly she regarded the match 
with a lively interest and some prejudice. 

At the other end of the chapel is an even more ambitious and more 
costly monument to the memory of Sir George Manners and his wife 
Grace. Figures of the knight and his lady appeared kneeling at a lectern. 



104 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

The whole is richly ornamented with shields of arms, and about it are 
many inscriptions. The latter are curious enough to transcribe. On the 
lectern are the words : " Thy prayers and thine alms are gone up before 
God." Along the top over the figures: "Ye day of a man's death is 
better than ye day of his birth." On the dexter side of the upper part of 
the monument also : ' ' Christ is to me both in death and life an advan- 
tage." And on the sinister: " I shall go to him, he shall not return to 
me." On the arches over the niches in the lower part of the monument, 
where appear effigies of the four sons and five daughters, are texts as fol- 
lows : the first is over a chrisom child — a curious little figure: 

" Mine age is nothing in respect of Thee." 

" One generation passeth and another cometh " (Son). 

" A vertvovs woman is a crowne to her hvsband " (Daughter). 

" The wise woman bvildeth her hovse " (Daughter). 

" My dayes were bvt a span long" (Son; probably Henry, who died at the age 

of twelve). 
" By the grace of God I am that I am " (Son ; probably Roger, who died at the 

age of eighteen). 
" A graciovs woman retaineth honovr " (Daughter). 
" A prvdent wife is from the Lord " (Daughter). 
" Shee that feareth the Lord shall be praysed " (Daughter). 

The Latin inscription has been thus translated : 

Sir George Manners, of Haddon, Kut., here waits the resurrection of the just 
in Christ. He married Grace, second daughter of Sir Henry Pierrepont, 
Knt., who afterwards bore him four sons and five daughters, and lived with 
him in holy wedlock thirty years, here caused him to be buried with his 
forefathers, and then placed this monument at her own expense, as a per- 
petual memorial of their conjugal faith, and she joined the figure of his 
body with hers, having vowed their ashes and bones should be laid 
together. He died April 23, A.D., 1623, aged 54 ; she died A.D., 
aged 

The interior of the church is scarcely inferior to that of Ashbourne. 
It has some good windows, and the chancel is almost unique in having 
two eastern ones. There are also many mural tablets and other memorials 
of the dead. No church in England has a larger or finer collection of 
ancient Saxon remains, incised grave-stones, coffin- lids and the like. 
These were discovered at the restoration in 1841, and deserve closer study 
than we can give them. There is also in the churchyard a famous runic 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 105 

cross, on which will be found, so our attendant informs us, mingled freely, 
bits of Christian and Pagan symbolism. Among these bits is a tree 
which represented the pathway for the messenger between the gods and 
the earth, and there is a squirrel which betokens the messenger. I sup- 
pose the man drawing a bow and aiming at the squirrel is a type of the 
wicked ones who are ever ready to interrupt the work of those who serve 
between heaven and earth. This man, by the way, I did not discover; 
so, possibly, being unseen, he better suggests the hidden powers of 
darkness. 

Our kind guide pointed out to me the tomb beneath which rest the 
remains of John Dale, barber- surgeon, of Bake well, and his two wives, 
Elizabeth Foljambe and Sarah Bloodworth. On the tomb is a very 
curious inscription, part of which I read, but most of it is now out of 
sight, and, unless something is done, before long the earth will cover the 
whole. The epitaph is well known : 

Know posterity, that on the 8th of April, in the year of grace, 1737, the rambling 
remains of the above-said John Dale were, in the 86th year of his pilgrim- 
age, laid upon his two wives. 

This thing in life might raise some jealousy, 
Here all three lie together lovingly, 
But from embraces here no pleasure flows, 
Alike are here all human joys and woes ; 
Here Sarah's chiding John 110 longer hears, 
And old John's rambling Sarah no more fears ; 
A period's come to all their toilsome lives, 
The good man's quiet ; still are both his wives. 

Here is another to a lawyer : 

These lines, I with watery eye, 

For my dear friend indite, 
Who for his worth, none such on earth, 

Heaven crown him with true light. 

A lawyer just, a steward most just, 

As ever sate in court, 
Who lived beloved, with tears interred, 

This is his true report. 

Nor is the following unworthy of transcription : 

Erected to the memory of Philip Roe, who died 12th September, 1815, aged 52 
years. 



106 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

The vocal Powers, here let us 'mark, 

Of Philip, our late Parish Clerk ; 

In church none ever heard a Layman 

With a clearer Voice say Amen ! 

Oh ! none with Hallelujah's Sound, 

Like Him can make the Roofs resound. 

The Choir lament his Choral Tones, 

The Town — so soon here lie his Bones. 
Sleep, undisturbed, within this peaceful shrine, 
Till angels wake thee with such notes as thine ! 

This is a good hunting ground for epitaphs, but I must abstain; the 
above are the chosen ones shewn to all visitors and quoted in most guide- 
books. Rhymsters and wits even now are not uncommon in these country 
districts, but before the days of popular literature they abounded. I do 
not remember whether at Ashbourne or at Bakewell, but some fifty years 
since there was one of these merry-hearted jinglers, who, in a wintry even- 
ing, went into the grocer's shop, not to find material for wedding ode or 
funeral dirge, but for the more practical purpose to buy a pound of tallow 
dips. In these days of gas and electricity everybody does not know what 
a dip is ; the old folks can tell. Having secured his purchase — number 
eights — he put them into one of the pockets of his coat-tail. Other people 
were in the shop, and conversation was brisk and to our poet interesting. 
But the night was cold, and he drew nearer to the stove. He forgot him- 
self in his animation, and finally, turning his back to the fire and putting 
one hand under his coat-tail, he began the recitation of one of his most 
exciting poems. It was long. In the meanwhile the heat of the stove 
affected the candles in his pockets. By and bye the tallow began to 
drip, and soon, unheeded by himself and unnoticed by his auditors, there 
grew at his heels a puddle of grease. When he came back from his spell 
of abstraction his candles were reduced to sixteens, and the lower parts of 
his coat were saturated and basted beyond remedy. His next thoughts 
may have been neither poetical nor witty, but when he had taken in the 
situation, and the laugh began to go round, the sparkle came into his eye, 
the weeks of his mouth deepened and he drew the attenuated iips from 
his pocket, exclaiming, after the heroic style of his kind : 

Thus melts the joy from off the string of man's poor life ! 

These were the men who, on the death of a neighbor, composed the 
lines which appeared upon the tombstone. I have spoken elsewhere of 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 107 

one of these individuals. They preserve old words, the use and meaning of 
which would otherwise soon perish. Thus in the foregoing paragraph 
my reader may not know the meaning of the expression ' ' the weeks of 
his mouth," though in the north of England it is well understood. If, 
however, he will remember that those old sea-dogs which once assailed 
the coasts of England were called Vik-ings because they came from the 
viks or weeks, the fiords and corners of Norway, he will have a clue to its 
explanation. 

But we must hasten from the church. There is a grammar school at 
Bakewell, founded in 1637, and the school-master, except on Sundays 
and Wednesdays, had to read prayers in the parish church at six o'clock 
every morning during the summer months, and at half-past seven every 
morning in the winter. The school hours were from seven to eleven in 
the forenoon and from one to five in the afternoon, and the principal 
thing taught was writing. 

Buying some books and pictures from the guide, we bid her farewell. 
A pleasant body: we told her we were from America. " But you are not 
an American," she exclaimed ; "the lady is, but your voice shows that 
you are English." Twenty years, evidently, have not eradicated the 
Midland modulation and accent. The good woman had four brothers in 
Pennsylvania — all doing well, and now citizens of the Republic. 

When we got back to the Inn, our Irish damsel was standing in the 
front door. We captured her at once : " Can you get us our bill ? " She 
looked at us: "What did you have?" "Luncheon." " That will be 
half a crown a piece." "Shall I pay it you?" " If you please." I 
hand the required amount to her, plus the customary remembrance, 
remarking : " Now we must be off; if we miss this train we may miss our 
steamer or something else." "Are you going over the sea?" she asked. 
' ' Yes, to America." ' ' To America ! ' ' she replied, for the first time getting 
really interested in us — and as her face brightened up she was not so bad 
looking, after all. "To America! That's a long way off, but I have 
friends there, in Denver. Perhaps you know them. No? That's funny. 
I thought over there everybody knew everybody. I hope you will get 
there all right. It's a fearful distance, and they tell me that the storms 
are dreadful. To America ! ' ' And the maiden stood watching us down 
the street, perhaps in the goodness of her heart pitying us and praying 
for us. 

It was a beautiful evening; among out last in England, and as so fre- 



108 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

quently happened this summer, the sunbeams flowed softly and warmly 
across valley and hillside as though to leave upon our minds the picture of a 
lovely landscape. In a few days we shall be looking upon the lonely, 
black billows of the Atlantic. When we reach the antique stone bridge 
over the Wye, we stop to look at the pretty brook winding through the 
meadows and playing, as it were, with the flags and flowers, the alders 
and the willows, upon its low, green banks. "A good, old bridge, isn't 
it ? " said some one behind us. We had seen nobody, and were startled 
at the unexpected voice. I turned around : there was our driver. 
"Wanted to wish you good-bye," he said; "so followed you down the 
street. " "Well, good-bye, my man. Do you often come to Bakewell ? " 
" Not often. Pleasant journey to you." He touched his cap, and left. 
I wonder if his taciturnity and general disagreeableness really meant any- 
thing. The noise of the brook almost drowns the shrill cries of the swifts 
and swallows that skim over its rippling and fly-thronged surface ; it was 
civil of the man to come and wish us farewell — but it does not remove our 
feeling that in some way or other we have wronged him. The river has 
trout — every river in Derbyshire has, it seems to me ; but one day, near 
this bridge, I believe, a fisherman saw an object rising and sinking in the 
waters. He got a landing net under it, and with great difficulty succeeded 
in bringing it to the shore. It proved to be a trout, twenty- six inches in 
length and sixteen inches in girth. It weighed eight pounds and three- 
quarters — by far the largest fish ever taken from the Wye. Anglers had 
long known of this monster, but no artifice had been devised for his cap- 
ture. Now, it appeared, that somebody had been drowning blind puppies, 
and the trout choked himself in trying to swallow one. 

Haddon Hall, I said, can be seen from the church- door at Bakewell. 
It was in May when we stopped at Rowsley, three or four miles from 
here, and, putting up at the Peacock Inn, visited both Chatsworth and 
Haddon. And first let me say a word of that quaint old inn, beneath 
whose rooftree we passed a day and a night. Who does not know that of 
all the inns of England none is loved by the stranger from abroad more 
than the ' ' Peacock ? " It was built by John Stephenson in the year 1652, 
and is a good example of the home of a well-to-do yeoman of that day. 
There have been some modern additions, but the old part of the house 
remains unaltered, perfect and snug. Good stone, well set together, did 
John use; and the front is surmounted with a brave and sightly peacock, 




o 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 109 

cut out of the same material. Over the windows are the drip- stones ; in 
the windows are mullions and tiny diamond panes. Ivy, too, runs over 
the walls, clambering up toward the gabled roof and the clustered chim- 
neys. Inside the rooms are comfortable and cosy, with that old-fashioned 
air about them, so full of pleasant suggestion. Even the bedsteads, 
hung with curtains and vallences, and the great easy chairs, covered with 
dimity and other homely stuffs, remind us of days fast fading out ; while 
the glimpses from the casement of the charming Derbyshire country create 
in us a joy which long abides. In the early twilight and again soon after 
sunset, one should wander through the quaint, old-time garden, beside 
the tree-shaded and fast- flowing brook: then nature seems kindly in her 
loveliness and rich in her inspiration. They who cannot be happy in such 
a place as this, need look no further for lightsomeness and felicity : the 
world has nothing more sure or quick to touch the heart. And he who 
does not rejoice in the associations of the house and the neighborhood, 
and does not acquire contentment over his roast mutton and Bakewell 
pudding, must have an ill conscience indeed ; notwithstanding that the 
dining-room is lighted with candles. 

The road from Rowsley to Chatsworth, the magnificent home of the 
Dukes of Devonshire, lies up the valley of the Derwent, and after passing 
through Beeley — a pretty village, less than a mile from the Peacock — 
crosses the river and enters the park. This princely domain is over 
eleven miles in circumference, and contains some of the most picturesque 
and most romantic scenery in this wild and beautiful country. Its trees 
are remarkably fine, and it is said that some of the oaks, enormous in 
girth, stunted by age and broken by storm, are nine or ten hundred years 
old. They were saplings when this region had to be won by the Con 
queror inch by inch, and they have witnessed the summers and winters in 
which were wrought the changes that have made the England of Alfred 
the England of Victoria. Nor is it likely that the neighborhood has 
altered much since the days when the manor was written Cheteswerthe, 
and was held under the crown by William Peveril. Beneath the wide- 
spreading trees the deer find shelter from the over- warm sun or the drench- 
ing rains; pheasants and partridges peep up out of the long grass as 
though they had never heard of a first of September ; blackbirds and 
thrushes sing close to the very walls of the house ; and after a drive along 
the well-kept road one realizes restfulness and delight. Peace reigns ; and 
the noisy world is out of hearing, beyond the glory and the loveliness of 
these woods and hills, these glittering waters and broad, soft lawns. 



no WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

The two miles and a half from Rowsley are all too quickly passed. 
Edensor, sometimes called Ensor, lies to the left, a quiet and beautiful 
village, in the churchyard of which sleep side by side both members of 
the family to which belongs this great heritage, and the yeomen, servants 
and peasants who, in days of yore did its bidding and enjoyed its 
bounty. The great house is built on the other side of the river, and no 
finer example of the home of a rich and powerful English nobleman 
could there be. One is startled at the first glimpse of it. No one would 
dream of so sumptuous a structure rising in the midst of a scene rude and 
wild, and, as far as the eye can see, without signs of modern life. St. 
Evremond, in one of his letters written from here, said : ' ' Nothing can 
be more romantic than this country, except the region about Valois ; and 
nothing can equal this place in beauty except the borders of the lake." 
For some years the noble and generous dukes of Devonshire have allowed 
the public to visit certain parts of the buildings and grounds ; nor does 
it appear that the permission given has been abused, though every year 
hundreds and thousands of strangers from all parts of the world avail 
themselves of it. The house is not, indeed, the hall built by the discreet 
daughter of John Hardwick, better known as Bess of Hardwick, the 
wife, in turn, of a wealthy Derbyshire squire named Barley, of Sir 
William Cavendish, of Sir William St. Eoe, and of George, Earl of 
Shrewsbury. Her matrimonial experiences began when she was fourteen 
years of age, and terminated seventeen years before she died — February 
19, 1607 — at the age of four-score and seven years. Each marriage 
advanced her socially and territorially, and of the six children which she 
had by her last husband, the powerful Shrewsbury — who, by the way, 
lived with her so unhappily that he complained to Queen Elizabeth of 
his " wyked and malysious wife" — one was created the first duke of 
Devonshire, and inherited all her vast possessions. She was a woman of 
thorough business habits ; perhaps selfish and arrogant, though opinion 
seems to differ on those points. In her way she was not altogether unlike 
the lady who in those days ruled England — strong-minded, independent, 
jealous, far-seeing and masterful. Her greatest passion was for building. 
Some wiseacre declared that so long as she continued building she would 
not die ; and as she did not wish to die, she kept on building. The 
Chatsworth of her day was built and finished by her, and in a dismal 
tower, enclosed by a stone wall and surrounded by a moat, not far from 
the present house, the hapless Mary, Queen of Scots, was by the Countess 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. m 

Elizabeth kept prisoner. No wonder the poor woman got rheumatism 
and needed wine-baths. The place, even when in its glory, must have 
been more than enough to drive health from the strongest body. Possibly 
the Queen of England desired nature to help her in the removal of her 
" dear sister ; " and after so many years spent under the care of Queen 
Elizabeth's warders there was not much of life left for the axe to take 
away. The hall built by Bess of Hardwick has gone — except, possibly, 
the tower, — but the island called Queen Mary's Bower remains — overun 
with frogs and doleful memories. 

The oldest part of the present structure was not begun till about 
1687 ; nor -did it reach its now magnificent proportions till the third or 
fourth decade of this century. Some of the greatest architects, painters, 
carvers and sculptors that England has produced, are said to have been 
employed in its construction ; and in 1692 the works were surveyed by 
Sir Christopher Wren. The east front has an extent of 557 feet. And 
there it stands, a wondrous piece of Grecian architecture, the expression 
of strength and wealth, the noble columns, the long line of balustrades, 
the richly ornamented frieze and the Italian-like tower, and the accurate 
art everywhere displayed, making it the most perfect of mansions, the 
rival of many a palace. Everywhere may be seen the serpent, the crest 
of the Cavendish family. 

An individual of some consequence, whose dignity and address as 
much bewildered us as his condescension filled our hearts with wonder, 
admitted us at the porter's lodge, and we were escorted through the halls, 
the chambers and the chapel by a young woman, who, having gone over 
the ground and told the story of each interesting feature so many times, 
seemed too stiff and too tired to afford us much interest or information. 
She was not as formal and dull as a Westminster verger — that was 
impossible, for the like of the men who take the stranger through the 
Abbey is exceedingly rare, thank God — but for some few minutes she 
moved with marvellous stateliness and indifference, and spoke briefly and 
coldly. Under the genial influence of one of our party, however, she 
gradually softened and became more communicative, until at last, like 
the spring after a hard winter, she became charming, and the descriptions 
she gave were full of grace and humor. I am told that if you could 
only thaw the icy dignity and Spitzbergen-like awfulness of a Westminster 
guide, you would find him to be at heart kindly, gentle and gracious. 
Once I resolved to try the experiment ; but the first glance of his eye 
frightened me, and I gave it up. 



H2 WOODS AND DADES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

To describe the treasures of sculpture, painting and bric-a-brac that 
we saw at Chatsworth is for me impossible. The wealth of art in the 
several rooms is provokingly bewildering. There is nothing common. 
You might read some of the descriptions of palaces in the Arabian 
Nights, and then go through Chatsworth without appreciating the differ- 
ence between the reality and the illusion. The best that the world has 
is there ; gifts from kings and emperors, chairs of state, portraits of 
famous personages, carvings by Grinlin Gibbons, and statuary that would 
make a Pygmalion sorrowful. But all this and much more can be read 
about in the guide-book ; and let those who read think kindly of the 
nobleman who, in the generosity of his heart and in his desire to advance 
the welfare and happiness of poorer people, allows the public to look 
closely into his possessions. We saw all that it is permitted the stranger 
to see ; and then our inquisitiveness led us to trespass upon the kindness 
of our guide, and get her to secure permission for us to pass through the 
private apartments. This privilege was most courteously accorded. We 
went into the dining-room, drawing-room and other rooms occupied by 
the family, all of which are furnished with a rare elegance ; but the 
gem of all is the library. I could never work in such a place ; indeed, I 
can seldom write unless before me is a scene not more diverting than a 
white wall, adorned with a few fly spots and a bit of disused cobweb. 
This glorious room is ninety-two feet long and twenty-two feet wide, and 
contains tens of thousands of volumes : no novice could suggest their 
value. One curious feature in the room is the door leading to the gallery 
by which are reached the upper shelves. The door is a secret contrivance, 
and would baffle the most ingenious searcher. It is made to resemble a 
bookcase, and when closed the keenest eye could not detect a break in 
the continuous lines of shelves and tomes. Some queer titles are painted 
on the backs of these supposititious books, and by touching a certain one 
of these titles the door flies open and reveals the staircase. 

A heavy shower prevented us from going into the gardens ; nor did 
we see the cascade, which some have thought only inferior to the breaking 
of ocean waves. The conservatory, too, which covers nearly an acre of 
ground and is replete with plants and flowers from every part of the 
world, was closed to us. But from the windows of the house we had 
several fine views of the grounds and surrounding country. Tell me, my 
good reader, if you know of landscapes more beautiful, and I will go to 
the end of the world to see them. The noble cedars suggest distant 
Lebanon. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 113 

We drove back to the Peacock. On the way we passed a butcher's 
boy riding on a smart cob, and carrying on his shoulder a wooden tray 
in which were some pieces of meat. The tray is a curiosity, being scooped 
out of one bit of plank, narrow and shallow, and having handles at each 
corner. A bright apprentice will manage his horse with one hand and 
his legs, and ride at a good pace with such a tray heavily laden resting 
on his shoulder. As he tires he will shift the burden to the other shoul- 
der. Nor does he look bad in his blue smock tightened around the waist 
with a leathern strap, from which hangs a steel, the use of the said steel 
marking both his skill and his business ; and surely, when he sharpens 
his blade thereon, he will do it with an air, and will feel as much lifted 
up by his accomplishment as does the school boy vho can cut a quill pen 
— if in the wide world there be left one such boy. This youthful dis- 
penser of meat — the ruddiness of the hawthorn berry was in his cheek, 
and the sparkle of a prince of mischief in his eye — reminded me of a cler- 
gyman whose life was spent in honest, self-denying labors in the back- 
woods of Lower Canada, and who used to carry home in somewhat similar 
manner the gifts his people bestowed upon him. The parson was indeed 
poor, and his scanty stipend was paid in kind, and not in cash. Long 
experience had taught him both prudence and the necessity of looking out 
for himself. He had also learned how to give a hint that would be effect- 
ive without hurting or offending anybody — a gift or an art that was to him 
more useful than a knowledge of the use of the Latin subjunctive, though, 
if I have been truly informed, he read Horace in the original and was a 
fairly good scholar. But just as the butcher's boy can drive a horse with 
one hand and carry a shin of beef with the other, so this good man had 
acquired the skill of indulging in learning one moment and of acquiring 
satisfaction for his bodily wants the next. Oh, the ability to drop a sug- 
gestion as gracefully as a girl drops rose leaves ! Once, when staying at 
the house of one of his parishioners, several miles away from his home, 
our poor and wide-awake friend was much delighted with the cheese 
served at dinner. It was toothsome and fragrant — more so, I imagine, 
than are some of the kinds which please epicures and suggest the need 
of cologne and carbolic soap. He began to praise it, lightly at first, 
grossly afterwards, as he perceived the necessity of a heavier bait. He 
told stories — likened daisies, pretty little daisies, with the yellow hearts 
and white edges, to fried eggs ; but back to cheese he came as speedily as 
convenient. At last his efforts met with the success desired. The house- 



H4 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

wife took the hint, and was delighted. The cheese was of her own making. 
She began to feel that she was of some use in the world besides darning 
baby's flannels. She further came to the conclusion that the parson was 
the best and kindest man she had ever met with, and, when he came 
round again, she would listen more attentively and more obediently to 
the sermon which he always preached without variation at his several 
visits. Every word of that sermon she knew by heart, having heard it 
seven or eight times, but she was now sure, since the parson could see in 
her cheese what nobody else had ever seen, that there was more in his 
sermon than she had ever yet discovered. So when he was about to leave, 
she and her husband asked him if he would accept one of the cheeses. 
The dear man's eyes brightened and opened wider. He rubbed his hands, 
and expressed his great pleasure and lasting obligations. His wife, he 
said, was vety fond of cheese, of good cheese like that, and she would be 
gratified beyond measure, while he would think of their kindness all the 
days of his life. Suddenly his countenance fell : he was very sorry, 
extremely sorry, but he could not take the cheese. It was good of them, 
and he would never forget their generosity, but he would have to leave 
their gift behind. Why ? Well, he did not like to say, but much as he 
and his dear wife, and even his sweet Baby Joe, loved cheese, he could 
not take it. The farmer and his good dame were greatly distressed. 
They began to feel hurt, and to suspect that the parson was getting too 
proud to carry home even food for his family. After further pressing to 
discover the reason of his reluctance, he admitted that the one cheese 
would overbalance his saddle-bag. "Oh!" cried the kind-hearted peo- 
ple, "that is easily settled, if you wouldn't mind, by taking another in 
the other bag." "God bless you, my friends," exclaimed the parson, 
" how thoughtful of you ! That puts the matter exactly right." And, 
brushing a tear from his eye — poor fellow, he had gone to bed without 
cheese many a night — he mounted his horse, having a cheese on either 
side of his saddle, and trotted off, but whether more thankful at the liber- 
ality of his people or at his own tact and foresight, I do not know. 

When we got back to Rowsley, after some cakes and wine, we started 
for Haddon. Had I time, I would spend hours talking about that 
delightful place ; as it is, I can only hastily run over the principal points 
of our visit there. To me Haddon Hall was far more interesting than was 
Chatsworth. America could build as many Chatsworths as there are 
States in the Union, and furnish them, too, as sumptuously as is the 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 115 

Derbyshire one ; but no America, and no England now, so far as that 
goes, could build a Haddon Hall. That is one of the most perfect illus- 
trations of the home of an English lord four hundred years ago ; and 
though it has been practically uninhabited for well nigh half that time, 
yet, so well has it been cared for, it presents no appearance of neglect. 
Easy enough is it there for the tamest imagination to picture the past. 
Every part of the old place, sombre and worn as it is, seems alive. We 
saw it as it was in the bright and busy days of the Vernons ; nor should 
we have wondered had the courtyard, now silent as the grave, been filled 
suddenly with men-at-arms, and the gloomy passageways quickly blazed 
with the torches of the servitors. 

From the turnpike, the Hall, as it stands upon the rising ground on 
the other side of the brook, against a hill covered with forest trees, and 
commanding a landscape varied, extensive and beautiful, suggests the 
wisdom and the taste which our ancestors had in the selection of sites for their 
churches, castles and manor houses. A narrow bridge with three arches, 
quaint in construction and ancient in years, spans the swiftly-flowing Wye 
— stream beloved by anglers. Bej'ond it the road lies by the custodian's 
house and the old buttressed stables, up to the tower- door, at the north- 
west angle of the buildings. The ground slopes abruptly, so that the 
Hall is most uneven and requires some breath and exertion to go through 
it. We got out of our carriage before we began the rather steep ascent to 
the tower, and we had time to see in the garden in front of the cottage at 
the end of the stables, the yew trees cut, the one into the shape of a pea- 
cock, the crest of the Manners, and the other into the shape of a boar's 
head, the crest of the Vernons. Here also we obtained our guide — a 
pretty and affable young lady who did not seem to tire of going over the 
place and of pointing out its objects of interest. We observed the stone 
steps by the wayside, set there long ago to enable the ladies to mount 
their horses. Through the heavy, nail-studded door we passed into the 
gateway leading up into the first or lower court. The stones are worn 
away ; for centuries have human feet gone hither and thither over them. 
In this gateway hangs a hoop taken off the tun in which was brewed the 
ale. It suggests the bibulous tendencies and the enormous capacities of 
the men of yore. The porter's lodge to the right is dismal enough to 
serve for a Cerberus. 

A few steps, and we are in the sloping yard. No life is there now 
except a few flowers and birds ; but what a story it could tell ! At the 



n6 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

lower end is the chamber known as that of the chaplain, though it is 
doubtful if this is the actual room in which he lived. In it are shown 
some old boots, a carbine, some pewter plates and a thick leathern jerkin. 
Down in the corner of the courtyard, corresponding with the old Norman 
tower, is the chapel. Reverently we entered this ancient place of prayer, 
nor could we refrain from remembering those who in the bygone days had 
worshipped within its walls. Some parts of the building date from the 
thirteenth century ; a pillar and a font are of Early English. The mural 
frescoes, almost obliterated, are probably four or five hundred years old. 
The holy-water stoup is quite as ancient. In long pews in the chancel sat 
the master, his children and his friends ; the rest of the family occupied 
benches lower down. In the pulpit no doubt many a eulogy was pro- 
nounced upon my lord's graciousness and many an admonition given to 
my lord's servants, very precious and very helpful for that day and genera- 
tion. No voice is heard there now. The singers sat in a gallery just 
behind. In the sanctuary is a "plain, honest table," beyond all doubt 
and perhaps beyond all conscience. The east window has some good old 
stained glass. Under this window is the inscription : " Orate pro anima- 
bus Ricardi Vernon et Benedicte uxoris ejus que fecerunt Anno Dni 
millesimo CCCCXXVII." This Richard was Treasurer of Calais, Captain 
of Rouen, and Speaker in the Parliament at Leicester. He added much 
to the buildings of Haddon and repaired this chapel, but he seems to have 
been an imperious and a quarrelsome neighbor, for complaints are recorded 
made against him by people living not far away. 

Crossing the courtyard we went through the porch into the narrow 
way leading to the upper quadrangle, on one side of which is the great 
hall. Here were held the revelries ; here at the heavy oaken tables were 
consumed the beef and the ale, and merry-hearted folks sang their songs 
and told their tales. It is one of the finest existing banqueting chambers 
of the olden time, and is about thirty-five feet long by twenty-five feet 
wide. There is a minstrel's gallery, and on the front of it several deer- 
antlers, much decayed. On the screen near the door is a handlock, so 
shaped as to fasten a man's hand whilst water, or perchance ale, was 
poured down the sleeve of his doublet. This punishment was adminis- 
tered, not only for obstreperous behavior, but also for failure to drink the 
prescribed allowance of beer and wine. Possibly there were people in 
those days who supposed that Timothy should use the wine which St. 
Paul recommended for his stomach's sake, as an embrocation. Behind 




'J 






WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 117 

this hall is the lord's private dining-room, a handsome chamber containing 
several shields of arms, and in the oriel recess a portrait of Henry VII, 
another of his queen, and a third of the court jester, Will Somers. Over 
the fireplace and beneath the Tudor arms is the legend, " Drede God and 
honor the Kyng. " There is some good carved oak wainscoting. 

A long gloomy passage, into which the sun-rays never could have 
penetrated, leads from the great hall to the kitchen. This place is of 
generous, if not enormous, proportions. Here are the huge fire places, 
the fuel box, the dressers, the chopping blocks, the salting trough, and 
the several appurtenances required in such a department, and for the 
preparation of feasts of the kind our fathers delighted in. The servitors 
here must have rejoiced when a fast day came around. It looked as 
though the tenants had lately left the place, though 200 years have gone 
by since here the cooks made mincemeat, and the boys turned the spits 
before the blazing logs. But it is as it was : time has not changed it. 
There by the chimney is the bench on which sat the bulky, broad -faced 
master-cook, superintending his helpers, and ever and anon cracking his 
joke, and kicking either the cur that lay at his feet, or the lad that slack- 
ened his hand at the basting of the venison. And there is the half-door 
over which the dishes were handed to the servitors, who should bear them 
to the dining-hall. Was that the voice of the major-domo hurrying along 
the tardy waiting-men ? The fires are out now, and the place is dark and 
cold. Yonder is the larder ; and there is the wine-cellar. In the kitchen 
was a well. Perhaps in the offices running from the kitchen along the 
northern side of the upper courtyard was the laundry — though, to be 
sure, clean linen was not in old time as common as it is now. There, how- 
ever, early in the week, before the sun had risen, might be heard the cry 
of the steward, "Come, come, girls! Up! up! Here it is Monday 
morning, and to-morrow's Tuesday, and the next day Wednesday ; half 
the week gone, and the clothes not a soak yet. ' ' 

We cross the lower end of the second quadrangle and enter a passage 
way where are some steps, cut out of the solid trunk of a giant oak, lead- 
ing up into the Ball-room or L,ong Gallery. This chamber is nearly 
no feet long, 18 feet wide and 15 feet high, but its great length is 
broken by three deep and large windows which overlook the garden. A 
fine view of the outside of this room, and, indeed, of the whole southern 
exposure of the Hall, may be had from the terrace which runs along part 
of the eastern end of the building, and from which steps go down into 
9 



n8 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

the gardens. Once a year, even now, the hospitable owner of the place, 
the Duke of Rutland, allows a ball to be given here. I have never danced 
— for no other reason except inability, — but I think I should like to try a 
step in a room where once paced sweet Dorothy and many another fair 
damosel, with their brave gallants, long since gone to their fathers. From 
the little ante-room leading into the far end of the ball-room, Dorothy is 
said to have run away to her lover, John Manners. She was a comely 
maiden, with large eyes and auburn hair ; sprightly, gay and with a mind 
and will of her own. When I am at Haddon I do my best to forget the 
monument in Bakewell Church, for I love the romance better than the 
stone- cutter. It is said that her friends did not wish her to marry John 
Manners. But love, which ever finds a way for itself, having bound her 
heart to his, and he, in the guise of a forester, having stolen into the walk 
beyond the winter-garden, higher up the slope, frequently whispered sweet 
words to her, and at last planned the escape. One night a ball was given 
in honor of her sister's marriage, and in the thick gloom, when the danc- 
ing was at its merriest and best, Dorothy slipped out of the room, down 
the steps to the terrace, from there through the garden, till at last, on the 
other side of the bridge over the Wye, she met her lover, and went with 
him far away to a priest. Some iconoclasts dispute the story, and it is 
next to certain that at that time this part of Haddon Hall was not built, 
and the door by which she fled had no existence ; but no evidence of this 
sort will compel any one who delights in the charming episode to give it 
up. By Dorothy's marriage to John Manners, the two families and their 
estates were united, and eventually the latter passed to their present pos- 
sessors, Dorothy's lineal descendants. 

In the state-room beyond this small apartment, and on the east side 
of the upper courtyard, is a bed of considerable dimensions. Its hang- 
ings were wrought in the reign of Henry VI. Possibly Queen Elizabeth 
slept in it, on the occasion of her visit to Haddon : some say it was last 
occupied by George IV. The looking-glass is also claimed to have 
belonged to the Virgin Queen. There is an old wooden cradle, said to 
be that of the first earl of Rutland. Much of the tapestry about the Hall 
must be very old; and when it was fresh, it undoubtedly added much to 
the appearance of the now desolate rooms. 

We went down the steps by which Dorothy Vernon fled, and hence 
along the terrace shaded by the limes and sycamores, down further steps 
to the main terrace, where grow the venerable yew-trees, and then through 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 119 

the gardens. There are quaint, grotesque figures on the gables, and at 
the water-spouts. But the rain came on, and we could wait to see little 
outside. Only of this were we sure, that if the stranger from abroad saw 
nothing in Europe but Haddon Hall, he would be well repaid for his voy- 
age across the sea. We did not mind the pelting, drenching rain through 
which we drove back to Rowsley. Though we could see little beyond the 
streams of water falling from our umbrellas, we had for our joy the mem- 
ory of one of the most charming and most romantic of all the treasures 
of England. 

What I have said about Chatsworth and Haddon Hall is far from doing 
justice to those remarkable places. A folio volume would not suffice for 
that which might be written of them. But, after all, everybody knows 
something about them, and, therefore, it is not necessary that I should go 
over ground which others, more competent than I, have gone over again and 
again. So I shall take my kind reader elsewhere, to a part of the country 
where few travellers go, and, before I leave Derbyshire, speak of a village 
scarcely known to the great world. And, as my thoughts turn thither- 
ward, there comes to me a flood of recollections, rushing mightily and 
surging deeply, and I cannot help, sweet lector, telling you of them — of 
that country life and its characters, which you may love as deeply as I 
do, though your boyhood was not like mine spent in and among such. 
This will serve, perhaps, to lead you up to an appreciation of the last 
place I shall speak of amid the woods and dales of Derbyshire. 

It matters little where the early days were spent— whether amid the 
exquisite loveliness of the southern counties, in the fair fields and green 
woods of the Midlands, within sight of the rugged grandeur of the Pen- 
nine slopes, under the majesty of a Ben L,omond or a Ben Nevis, near to 
the sweet waters of Killarney, or in the calm, deep Cambrian glens ; every 
recollection is beautiful and every picture is immortal. To thoughtful 
minds and loving souls, even as a brook singing and sobbing, playing 
with sunbeams and toying with lilies, as it flows between the pollards or 
the rushes, come associations which seem to have no end and which unite 
emotions of varied sort into a precious and lingering melancholy. Such 
hearts know the happy sorrow and the sorrowful happiness of the past. 
They bid the time that now is be still, and again they hear the chiming 
of bells, the rattling of mills, and the bleating of sheep. The old village 
lives once more — its winding lanes, its hives amidst the hollyhocks and 



120 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE- 

apple trees, its timber houses with their dark beams, red tiles and quaint 
gables, and its antique, gray-walled church in which on Sunday spider- 
webs tremble at the roll of Te Deum, and through the windows, children 
watch the buttercups growing on the graves. From yon elm-top comes 
the plaintive and familiar note, the recurrence of which bachelors and 
maids count so that \hey may know the number of years of single life 
awaiting them, and which recalls the oldest bit existing of English melody : 

Surner is icumeu in, 
Lhude sing cuccu. 

From the clear morning sky lightly falls the wild, blithe song of the shrill- 
throated lark, and in the still}' eventide drift the bursts of harmony from 
the nightingale's haunt among the orchard trees. When the sunlight 
skims the ground and creeps through the low hedge- stumps, the shepherd 
and the herdsman plod heavily along the highway, their thick-nailed 
shoes wet with early dew, and their dog peering into ditch and bush to 
spy out rabbit, rat or bird. To the meadow wends the mower carrying 
in a wooden bick his cider, and in a flag basket his bread and bacon ; and 
soon instead of the grass-rustle will be heard the swish of the scythe, and 
underfoot will lie the wild flowers — the daisy, with heart of gold and edge 
of blushing pink, the cowslip, which the pious loved to call " Our Lady's 
Kej^s," and the violet which, though hid in sward, rivals both the fra- 
grance of the hawthorn and the charm of the snowdrop. And the simple 
housewife, watching now the crackling thorns upon the hearth and anon 
the sunflowers opening in the golden dawn, rejoices at the twitterings of 
swallows under the eaves, and at the crowing of proud chanticleer in the 
barnyard. Every season has its own glory : the winter, when the frost 
hardens the furrows and the snow covers roofs and trees, skirts the swart 
icy pond, and drives to the window-sills the chirping and hungry birds, 
when over field and through copse echoes the huntsman's cry, and within 
doors hospitality and cheer abound ; the summer with its calm twilights, 
its boundless freedom, its ripening harvests and its blissful scenes ; the 
autumn when the fruits are gathered in and the voice of thanksgiving is 
heard in the land ; but best of all, as the ballad runs : 

Whan shaws beeue sheene and shraddes full fayre, 

And leaves both large and longe, 
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest 

To heare the small birdes souge. 




Kt 

OS 



S 






& 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 121 

Sweet is the whiff of Sherwood in the old lines ! None wearies of 
the praises of the spring. Then nature awakes from her winter's sweaven, 
and to the bloomless briars are given green mantles, and upon budding 
roses fall pure slumbering dews. The youth sing merry madrigals, and 
the aged think less of chilly rains. Instead of storms there breathes the 
" Murmuring winde, much like the sowne of swarming bees." All things 
are again as heart would have them, and they to whom the spring of 
Western Europe comes, behold a vision of transcendant grace and of unri- 
valled loveliness which can never lose its charm. 

Nor when the associations of the country thus stir the soul are human 
things forgotten. Let me give you a sketch, which shall not be altogether 
imaginary. By the roadside, behind a bit of garden in which grow 
roses and honeysuckles, stands a cottage. Upon its walls is trained a 
vine, and against the small diamond-shaped window-panes lean the fuch- 
sia clusters and the cactus leaves. Under an old box-tree, near the front 
door, a dog spends most of his time. Hodge lives there — not the farm 
laborer, but he who plies the hammer under the elm near the toll-gate, 
and can shoe the squire's horse or mend the parson's wagon in quicker 
time than any other blacksmith in Christendom. A good soul is he. 
Through the livelong day in shirt sleeves and leathern apron he sticks to 
work; evening come, he either looks about the garden, drops into the 
" White Lion " and over a stunning mug of nut brown discusses with the 
landlord the latest scrap of political gossip, or sits indoors to finish last 
Saturday's paper and, while the wife patches elbow rent jackets or mends 
toeless stockings, reads to her morsels of news and wisdom, now and then 
stopping to snuff the candle, and, should a thief appear on the wick, to 
wonder from whom the letter will come and what it will be about. For 
most phenomena he has a reason : " How are you ?" he once asked of a 
local magistrate. "A bad cold, Hodge, and a worse headache," replied 
his worship. " Ah, sir," said the smith, " a cold always goes to the weak 
spot." Once he was an expert at cricket, and he won several prizes at 
pigeon shooting and in the flower show. His skill as an angler is consid- 
erable. One evening he felt a heavy tug on his line ; a mighty fish had 
seized the bait. In a moment the water was in commotion. "Never 
mind," cried Hodge, "if my tackle will stand the strain I shall be sure 
to have him. The reason you can't catch 'em is because your mind isn't 
in it." So the struggle went on, and at last lay on the bank a pike weigh- 
ing ten pounds and measuring from snout to tail thirty-five inches. "The 



122 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

finest fish," said the local paper, " which we have seen out of our stream 
for many years." Rumor also said that Hodge knew something about 
snaring pheasant and trapping hares, but rumor delights to malign good 
men. Beyond his garden, his familiarity with sport was now confined to 
clipping dogs' ears and tails, and to teaching pies and daws decent Eng- 
lish. On Sunday, being both a Christian and a parish clerk, he went to 
church ; that his theology was orthodox and his politics conservative 
shows that he had both a mind and a soul. Scarcely would he have done 
as did a Westminster verger of whom Dean Stanley tells. This guardian 
was averse to visitors kneeling in the abbey, and when he saw such he 
tapped them on the shoulder and bade them rise. A gentleman seeing 
him thus disturb a worshipper asked of him his reason. Said the son of 
Bumbledon : " L,or' bless you, sir, he was say in' his prayers ; if we once 
allowed 'em to do that, we should have them praying all over the place." 
The village church, however, was carefully locked up from Sunday even- 
ing till the following Saturday afternoon, so that there the like danger 
was not imminent. Nor was Hodge's reading other than good ; a rare 
virtue in a parish clerk. In days when, notwithstanding the call of 
Venite to sing unto the Lord, congregations read the Psalter, a new incum- 
bent found that the clerk in saying the Psalms made many mistakes. At 
last he said to him : "John, I wish you would not say in the seventy-fourth 
Psalm, ' Let us make hay-cocks of them.' If you look you will see the 
words are, 'Let us make havock of them.' " John answered: "Well, 
sir, of course, if you wish it I will; but it always used to be haycocks." 
Hodge, however, though he took snuff and smelt of rhubarb, was of more 
thoughtful mould. How promptly he drove out the dogs which on sum- 
mer Sundays would stray into the church ! When from his receptacle in 
the three-decker he spied such an intruder, no matter how inappropriate 
the moment, he at once started in pursuit. As the parson was short- 
sighted, and supposed that Hodge had gone to help some one who had 
fainted, he sympathetically stayed the service until his return. And how 
nobly this doorkeeper and choir leader vindicated the reputation of the 
vicar against the ungodly aspersions of evilly-minded dissenters ! 

Nor, to turn from the blacksmith to the parson, unjustly ; for though 
the latter scrupulously received his tithes — seeing that, like most men, he 
had to live and pay taxes, — yet he gave back more than he received in 
solid and lengthy discourses, which were always calmly and slowly 
delivered, and afforded to the wise some interest and to the ignorant much 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 123 

mystery. One of his prosy and soporific brethren was once driving with 
a friend who, yawning, asked : "Brown, have you a sermon about you? " 
" No," was the innocent reply ; " Why ? " " Well, I feel so sleepy that 
I was sure you had a discourse in your pocket." A Rutlandshire clergy- 
man himself passed from a sermon into a snore. He had walked some 
miles to take the duty for a neighbor in August, and being in good time 
he looked into the vicarage. A servant said, ' ' You seem tired, sir ; won't 
you have a glass of ale after your walk? " Yes, he would, and he did, 
and felt refreshed. The afternoon, however, was very hot, and the rustic 
congregation, who had been reaping and binding all the week, mostly fell 
asleep. There was a nasal murmuring among the people. The doors, too, 
were wide open, and the bumble bees sailed slowly down the aisle, adding 
to the hum. Thus when the preacher went into the pulpit he caught the 
sentiment of the congregation, and after kneeling down and putting his 
face reverent^ between his hands for a few seconds, remained in the 
same attitude fast asleep. Time has removed these easy-going souls; nor 
is it known that our vicar ever felt in this way the influence of his sur- 
roundings. But his voice acted as an opiate upon his hearers, as 
did the voice of one of the good vicars of Ashbourne, and man)'- measured 
the worth of his expositions and exhortations by the length of time 
which they had passed in unconsciousness. The good man belonged to 
the school which clings to white cravats and applies to the Tudor Mary 
opprobrious epithets ; his gown had in it seven yards more of silk than 
his surplice had of linen ; his tastes were for law and charity, and his 
opportunities made him both a magistrate and a guardian ; but he was 
also to the needy a sure friend, and to the doubting a trusty counselor. 
His people grumbled at him and loved him. They would have been 
pleased had the bishop censured him for following the hounds and 
drinking port ; though as some of the neighboring clergy played croquet 
and imitated Dr. Johnson in sipping tea, they admitted him to be not 
without excuse. Never was he suspected of injustice on the bench ; he 
might well have taken the oath of the Manx Deemster, to interpret the 
law " as indifferently as the herring backbone doth lie in the midst of the 
fish." After all, the old folks, guided by men such as he, were not so bad 
— they did their duty, lived honestly, and left behind them many a virtue 
which we can only imitate and many a work which we can only admire. 
The parson had his faults, but he was more an Adams than a Trulliber, 
and honestly sought to realize the ideal depicted by Chaucer, Dryden and 
Cowper. 



124 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Scandal is, of course, never still ; even bishops do not escape ; much 
less vicars. Years ago, in the staging days, the Metropolitan of Canada, 
when travelling in the wilds of New Brunswick, had to stay at an indif- 
ferent inn for refreshments and for relays of horses. It was winter and 
during a snowstorm. The coolness of the landlord and the indifference of 
the hostler irritated the bishop, who was anxious to reach his journey's 
end. He finally succeeded in arousing Boniface to a sense of the urgency 
of the case. Thoroughly awake, that worthy shuffled to the back door, 
and shouted for Jim. Upon the poor bishop's ears fell the words : "Jim, 
I say ! look alive there and get them horses in quicker' n shootin' ! Here's 
that little English Bishop in here a atssm' an 1 a sweariri 1 like mad ; look 
alive now; step around!" His lordship groaned in spirit and said 
nothing. The villagers to whom our parson and Hodge ministered could 
just as freely and as innocently misrepresent their parish priest. 

The schoolmaster looked to the vicar as a patron and to Hodge as a 
friend. He was aged and simple, though far from being either feeble or 
foolish. He believed in the fear of God, the integrity of the crown, the 
rod for discipline, and horseshoes for good luck. Of botany and geology 
he knew enough to bewilder all who heard him discourse of weeds and 
chalk-pits ; but rather than such subjects, he endeavored to instil into 
the juvenile mind certain spiritual truths and moral obligations. These 
things he considered better than even grammar or arithmetic, and his 
proudest boasts were of boys who without mistake could repeat the 
Catechism, and of the two youths who once sat before his desk and were 
afterwards, the one a policeman and the other a gamekeeper. These 
prodigies the old man never failed to cite as illustrations of the success of 
industry and integrity. Indeed he was more pleased to see a lad weed 
thoroughly and quickly a garden path, than to hear him repeat the multi- 
plication table or parse a compound sentence. He had an inkling of 
antiquity, and told with some glee how the people of a village sold their 
parish Bible to buy a bear for baiting. This was done at Congleton, in 
Cheshire, in 1601, and in old time so much more popular was bear-baiting 
than church-going, that as late as the second decade of the present cen- 
tury, at a Lancashire town, the evening service on the wake-day was 
interrupted by the beadle calling to the clergyman from the church door, 
" Mestur, the bear's come ; and what's more, there's two of 'em." The 
pedagogue did not like whistling women ; every time a woman whistles 
the heart of the Blessed Virgin bleeds. Nor did he care for women who 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 125 

laughed overmuch, though his objection was scarcely that of Mistress 
Osborne: "She laughs a little too much," said sweet Dorothy of her 
cousin, "and that will bring wrinkles, they say." His neighbors believed 
in old wives' remedies — e. g., a cobweb for a cut finger, a snail for eczema 
and a frog for consumption. The frog had to be swallowed alive, and the 
snail suffered to crawl over the affected parts. Some swallowed quantities 
of shot, thinking that such would keep down the lungs. Others saw 
ghosts and interpreted dreams ; though, perhaps, none went so far as did 
an Italian organ-grinder, who was once seen on his knees in Holborn 
before a dentist's show-case, under the impression that its contents were 
the relics of some saint. Such superstitions Father Ash, as the master 
was called, disallowed. 

In this he was supported, amongst others, by the landlord of the 
" Black Bear," a popular hostelry in the neighboring market town. Many 
a time over a goose dinner, or a pot of cider, did these two cronies dis- 
cuss the village weaknesses. "Yes, they were a bit queer in the old 
time, ' ' the master would say, "but, Thomas, they knew a thing or two ?" 
" That be so," was the unvarying reply. " Now there be ale," the mas- 
ter would continue; " you can't make such ale nowadays. It gave pluck 
to soldiers and brains to poets. People drank it for breakfast, and they 
were a deal stronger and better than are folks who have nothing but tea 
and coffee. It was the making of England." "That be so," assented 
Boniface; and he sent a cloud of tobacco smoke up to the black beams. 
" Now," added Father Ash, " you have an exciseman come to try it. He 
is most likely a teetotaler, and doesn't know the difference between Der- 
byshire and Dublin. Good Queen Bess sent a chap with a pair of leather 
breeches on. He took a muggin of the fresh brewed and spilled it on 
the bench. Then he sat on it for a quarter of an hour. If at the end 
of the time he found that he wasn't stuck to the bench, he knew that the 
ale was free from sugar and good for man. But those days are gone." 
" That be so; " and Boniface took another draught of cider. 

Still Boniface was none of the wisest. A wandering artist once made 
his quarters at his inn, and having put off as long as possible the day of 
settlement, at last said to the host: " Look here, this is how it is: I owe 
you so much money, and I haven't a penny to pay with. I'll tell you 
what I'll do. Your bruin looks shabby and wants painting up. I'll do 
it to wipe off the score." The landlord agreed, and the sign was fresh 
painted. The artist, however, was not satisfied, and said, " Without a 



12b WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

collar and a chain the animal will certainly run away." Boniface thought 
not; the old bear never had been tied, and he did not see why the new 
one should. So the artist went his way, and the sign was placed in its 
usual position, where for sometime it looked well; but one night came on 
a heavy rain, and in the morning, sure enough, bruin was gone. The 
painter had mixed his colors with water instead of oil. " Ran," said the 
neighbors, "as the landlord's sense had done when he let go a score on 
such terms." The schoolmaster shaped a moral out of the incident, 
"Boys, don't drench yourselves with water, and, above all, when the fight 
begins don't run awaj\" 

And this charge was a key to the dear man's character. His opinion 
was that the man who died in a red coat or a blue serge had a better 
chance of heaven, than had he who bade the world farewell from a bed of 
down; and to Hodge he frequently observed, that if one of his pupils 
should become a color-sergeant or a boatswain, he would go happily to 
his plot near the great yew tree. So far as the birch would serve, he 
sought to inure his scholars to hardship. That was the best way to erad- 
icate bad habits and to instil virtue. Possibly he was kindred in spirit 
to that master of ancient days who is said to have addressed his scholars: 
" Boys, it's your duty to love one another, and if you don't, I'll flog you 
till you can't stand;" but the times have changed. These types — the 
schoolmaster, the landlord, the blacksmith and the parson — once common 
enough, and once making the charm of the village-life, are giving way to 
evolutions new and strange. Yet the memory of them causes the heart 
to tingle, and they will remain associated with much that is good and 
delightful in the old lands. 

When the native of regions such as Derbyshire, through which we 
are now wandering, makes his home in lands beyond the seas, he cher- 
ishes most carefully and most affectionately recollections such as these. 
The pictures deepen in color, and grow in richness, with the lapse of time. 
Possibly the flow of years tends to change the reality into an ideal, which 
ideal, as though by way of compensation, becomes more beautiful and 
more full of joy and satisfaction than the reality can ever be. But, un- 
fortunately, when the long- absent one returns to the scenes and haunts of 
his childhood, he is apt to suffer disappointment. Things are not quite 
what he thought they were. Imagination has interfered with memory, 
and the hills and the brooks look smaller, and the farms, windmills, 
churches, and even the people do not seem as picturesque and as interest- 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 127 

ing as he supposed they would. To be sure in a few days, as he gradually 
enters again into the old life, the charm conies back once more; richer, 
sweeter, happier than ever, and he exults in an appreciation of things and 
of friends around him that never could have been his had he not gone over 
the waters. Still the earlier feeling is sure and severe. This was sug- 
gested by one who was bred in the village we are on our way to, 
in some lines addressed from Philadelphia to another native of this 
same county, the latter then being on a visit here ; both dear friends of 
my own, and loving the country side, whether in England or America, as 
fervently as I do myself. 

Tell me, do the larks sing as sweetly, 
Does the hawthorn blossom the same? 
Are the cottages thatched as neatly, 
And the fields yet sportive with game ? 

Do sweet violets still perfume the air, 
And cowslips the meadows adorn ? 
Are the hills and dales still as fair 
With green grass and rich golden corn ? 

Are the old lanes joyous as ever 
With the songs of gay summer birds ? 
Are the mossy banks covered over 
With beauty, told never in words ? 

Are English homes still the same places 
Where angels of peace loved to dwell ? 
How look the familiar faces 
You loved and remembered so well ? 

Is England the home of your boyhood ? 
Do the old loves come back again ? 
Say, are not your thoughts turning homeward 
Across the wide storm driven main ? 

And let me tell you, good reader, there are scenes and landscapes 
near to Philadelphia, in Chester Valley and in Whitemarsh, quite as 
beautiful as anything you will find in all Europe ; nor has either England 
or Switzerland anything more romantic, or more sure to excite the imagi- 
nation and awaken the deepest emotions, than do the Wissahickon and 
Valley Forge. But at this time I may not divert your thoughts from 
Derbyshire — even though my friend's last question reminds me that my 
heart's love and my warmest interests abide in the city beside the queenly 
Delaware. 



128 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

When I think of Derbyshire men who have sought a home in some 
newer land, I am reminded of two brothers — Scotchmen, though, and 
therefore from a district far away from these parts. The story runs thus, 
if my authority may be depended upon, of which I have no doubt : They 
bade farewell to their friends and went their way, one to New Zealand 
and the other to Canada. The latter became a schoolmaster in the back- 
woods, and later, leaving his Presbyterian faith, he received deacon's 
orders from an Anglican bishop. He was a shrewd, hard- headed man, 
with a great and kindly heart, firm in resolution and gentle in sympathy, 
and in due time he became a priest ; and later, bishop of one of the 
greatest of Canadian dioceses. In that exalted position he more than 
satisfied all that was expected of him. A born statesman, keen and 
far-sighted, wise, masterful and generous, he not only built up and 
strengthened the Church, but he also made for himself a name and many 
friends. Forty or fifty years ago there was no man more honored and 
beloved in the province than he. His brother, in the meanwhile, had 
prospered in New Zealand as a tiller of the soil. Time went on, and the 
farmer resolved to visit his old home, and on his way call upon his 
brother in Canada, of whose position or change of faith he knew nothing. 
He supposed that he was in needy circumstances, and, as God had pros- 
pered him, he would try to set him up on his feet. So he reached 
Toronto, and began to make inquiries for John Strachan. Few people 
recognized John Strachan in the Lord Bishop, and for long his inquiries 
were unsuccessful. At last he was sent to the Bishop's house, rather a 
palatial residence, according to colonial ideas, and in which our well-to-do 
3^eoman probably supposed his brother was a footman, or at the best, the 
butler. He rang the bell, and of the buttoned functionary who opened 
the door he asked for John Strachan. His request opened the eyes of the 
dignified servitor, and for some seconds he gasped for breath. This was 
not the way people inquired after the Lord Bishop. However, he invited 
the stranger in, and told the Bishop that some strange, outlandish-looking 
creature was asking for him bj^ his plain name. The Bishop soon recog- 
nized his brother, and the reunion was as warm and affectionate as it well 
could be. Still, the brother supposed the Bishop to be no more than a 
butler, and the episcopal leggings confirmed him in this opinion. When 
he said, as he did every now and then, " Don't let me keep you, if you 
are busy, John," he imagined that John might have been engaged at 
cleaning plate or bottling port. After a while the Bishop took him over 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 129 

the house. To the New Zealander it seemed almost like Paradise, so 
beautiful did everything look. "What a great man he must be, " said 
the farmer, "who owns all this!" "Why, brother," answered the 
Bishop, " it all belongs to me. Don't you know that I am the Bishop? " 
Now the brother had never seen a Bishop in his life, having, as you 
remember, come from Scotland ; and he had remained a Presbyterian. 
Therefore all he knew of Bishops was that they were a suspicious kind 
of being, whose chief occupation in life was to number fagots and bullets 
for the worrying of Covenanters. If John had told him that he kept a 
" sma' public," he would have been less astonished and more pleased. 
But John a prelate ! Had not good old Grimshaw told them again and 
again that prelates were the apocalyptic locusts written of by the Evan- 
gelist ? And now John was a man of sin, perhaps as scarlet as the Pope 
himself ! Yet John did not look unlike the dear old John of bygone days ; 
the leaven may not have thoroughly affected him. So he held his peace 
on that subject and exclaimed, "All yours, John!" And he glanced 
around the room, his face flushing with pride and joy ; and then his 
countenance sobered down — perhaps as he remembered some lesson taught 
in old Scotia — and with an anxious voice he asked, " But tell me, John, 
did ye come by it all honestly ? ' ' 

On the eastern hills of Derbyshire, and in the Hundred of Scarsdale 
— so called from the rocks or crags with which the region abounds ; 
"scarr " being Old English for such, — exactly sixteen miles from Bake- 
well as the crow flies, is one of the quaintest and oldest villages in Mid- 
England, Bolsover by name. Five miles to the south of Bolsover, on the 
same high land, is Hardwick Hall, the building and the home of Bess of 
Hardwick. A word about this place before I speak of Bolsover, and this 
for the reason that the visitor to Bolsover will be sure to go to Hardwick 
also. The park is one of the finest in England, and has still many broad- 
spreading oaks whose gnarled trunks, and sometimes sapless, withered 
boughs, tell of ages and generations that have gone since the woodman 
guarded the saplings alike from mischievous village lad and leaf-loving deer. 
Perhaps nowhere can one have a livelier suggestion of Robin Hood and 
his merry men: who knows but that arrows shot from his bow have sped 
over these deep green glades, and fetched down many a fat buck, which 
later, gladdened the hearts and satisfied the hunger both of the bold for- 
ester and of his jovial companions, Little John and Friar Tuck ? The old 



i 3 o WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

hall is in ruins, and is overgrown with ivy, but, like most ancient and 
broken buildings, it wins sympathies by its associations and picturesque 
appearance, and in position is scarcely inferior to the new building, a little 
way off. Glorious views of the rolling, green country are had from both. 
The people who built these places and the like, must have loved to look 
upon hills and valleys, woods, meadows and streams ; and not unlikely, 
though their habits were ruder, their hearts were as pure and as tender as 
are ours — perhaps, purer and tenderer. At a distance the new hall creates 
impressions of dignity and beauty which do not increase as one draws 
nearer. It is built largely of glass, so that it has been compared to an 
immense and a magnificent lanthorn. The facade is 280 feet long, and has 
eighteen colossal windows, each containing 1500 squares of glass. These 
windows take away the thought of age, for though the building is 300 
years old, one looks rather at the glass glittering in the sunshine than at 
the dark and heavy stonework. The architecture is the opposite of the 
style in vogue in more troublous times. Then men built thick, dark walls ( 
more for defence than for comfort ; now they loved the light, and having 
little fear of the king's peace being broken, made palaces like Hardwick, 
" more glass than wall." Bess put her monogram and initials wherever 
she conveniently could — on the towers, in the fire-screens, and even in the 
gardens ; very much as a school girl scribbles her name over her lesson- 
books, not, perhaps, to mark her ownership, but as an amusement, and 
without a thought of perpetuating her memory, which silly people have 
who deface with their names places of public interest. Inside the hall 
are many treasures, portraits of other historical characters, besides men- 
bers of the Devonshire family, tapestries, wainscotings and furniture ; 
but more interesting than all else about the place is the association of 
Mary, Queen of Scots, herewith. Whether she was ever at Hardwick is 
uncertain, but many articles of needlework wrought by her were brought 
here from Chatsworth, and much of the furniture shown in the rooms on 
the second floor is as she used it, and as she left it. Old Leviathan Hobbes 
was a guest here, too, and though he lived to the age of ninety-two, it 
was believed that he would have held on longer had it not been for his 
excessive smoking. If his tobacco was as heavy as his books are, it is a 
marvel that he did not die long before. 

There were four buildings which in days gone by obtained the admi- 
ration of the people of this neighborhood. Of these Hardwick Hall was 
one. Two others were Welbeck Abbey and Worksop Manor, both over 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 131 

the line in the next county, Nottinghamshire. The fourth was Bolsover 
Castle, of which more anon. The following curious rhyme contained in 
an old manuscript sets forth the popular comparison between them, and 
the popular opinion of each: 

Hardwicke for hugeness, Worsope for height, 
Welbecke for use, and Bolser for sighte; 
Worsope for walks, Hardwicke for hall, 
Welbecke for brewhouse, Bolser for all; 
Welbecke a parish, Hardwicke a court, 
Worsope a pallas, Bolser a fort; 
Bolser to feast in, Welbecke to ride in, 
Hardwicke to thrive in, and Worsope to bide in. 
Hardwicke good house, Welbecke good keepinge, 
Worsope good walks, Bolser good sleepinge; 
Bolser new built, Welbecke well mended, 
Hardwicke concealed, and Worsope extended. 
Bolser is morn, and Welbecke day bright, 
Hardwicke high noone, Worsope good night; 
Hardwicke is nowe, and Welbecke will last, 
Bolser will be, and Worsope is past. 
Welbecke a wife, Bolser a maide, 
Hardwicke a matron, Worsope decaide; 
Worsope is wise, Welbecke is wittie, 
Hardwicke is hard, Bolser is prettie. 
Hardwicke is riche, Welbecke is fine, 
Worsope is stately, Bolser divine; 
Hardwicke a chest, Welbecke a saddle, 
Worsope a throne, Bolser a cradle. 
Hardwicke resembles Hampton Court much, 
And Worsope, Welbecke, Bolser none such; 
Worsope a duke, Hardwicke an earl, 
Welbecke a viscount, Bolser a pearl. 

The rest are jewels of the sheere, 

Bolser pendant of the eare, 

Yet an old abbey hard by the way — 

Rufford — gives more alms than all they. 

There is little doubt that these lines were written by a Bolsover man, 
or at all events by one who had a liking for that village. But they who 
go thereto from Bakewell will pass through Chesterfield, and not by way 
of Hardwick ; and Chesterfield is a neat market town, and has a fine parish 
church with a crooked steeple, and begins the six or seven miles up the 
steep and stony road to Bolsover. On the way the traveller passes through 



132 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Calow and Long Ducktnanton — two tiny hamlets, in one of which there 
is a room where religious services are held, the size of which room would 
scarcely have satisfied a missionary I knew in Canada. He was accus- 
tomed to preaching in small chapels, but not in places quite so small as 
this. Before he began his sermon, to make sure that he could be heard, 
he always said in a low voice, " If you hear me at the end of the church, 
be kind enough to say so." Of course, there was no answer. He would 
repeat his question in a higher key and louder tone, but still no reply, for 
the people were shy and respectful, and were not used to speaking to the 
minister during the sermon. Again would he put the question, higher 
and stronger, but with the same result. Again and again ; still silence. 
Then when he had got his voice so that he might have been heard by four 
or five thousand people, some one would venture to reply, " I hear." The 
whole sermon was then delivered at that pitch and volume, and the con- 
gregation thought the parson was out of his mind, and, before he had done, 
would drive them distracted and break the windows. From Long Duck- 
tnanton to the right the distance is but short to Sutton Hall and Park ; 
and in the fields hereabouts you may see the rabbits and partridges, both 
brown and timid, and probably both destined for the gun and the dining- 
table. And at the foot of the hills, on which stands Bolsover Castle, is a 
brook called Dawley, with water clear as that of the Dove, and run- 
ning merrily off towards the north, singing as joyously as do the birds 
which make their home among the trees near its banks. Up this stream, 
near the road, is Sutton Mill, in the waste water of which the boys catch 
minnows and hunt rats; while, in the deeper stream above, the angler 
finds eels and pike of goodly strength and size. There are some nooks 
hereabouts where one can imagine one's self out of all reach of the world's 
crowd and care — willow-shaded corners where you can lie down on the 
thick sward, and listen to the flow of the waters and the tap of the wood- 
pecker, and perhaps dream undisturbed of days that have been or are yet to 
be. No one will come near you unless it be a grasshopper or a frog, and, 
provided you do not need them for a bait, they will not cause much 
trouble. 

The castle lifts up itself from the highest point of the wooded hill, 
which springs almost from the banks of the Dawley — a tall, gray fortress, 
commanding with a princely air the whole surrounding country. It is a 
landmark for many a long mile, and its history, coming down as it does 
from the dim, dark past, shows that the men of old considered its site as 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 133 

of first-class military importance. The oldest part of the present build- 
ing is not earlier than the sixteenth century, but it rests upon foundations 
which were built by William Peveril in Norman days, and in the earth- 
works and ruined watchtowers near by are proofs that the spot was forti- 
fied before either Dane or Saxon called the land his own. The manor 
was of consequence in Mercian times, and, without going into details of 
the growth and development of the town and castle, it is safe to say that 
by the end of the Plantagenet dynasty, the town was surrounded by forti- 
fications on all sides that were not defended by the castle and the steep 
crags. No better view of the huge castellated buildings can be had than 
from the Chesterfield road — unless, perhaps, it be from the Iron Cliff near 
the road coming in from Elniton. From either point one gains an idea 
of its imposing dignity, and though much of it lies in ruins and is cov- 
ered by the thick ivy, yet the walls and towers, that have survived the 
storms of the past two or three centuries, look as if they defied time itself. 
And yet how fierce and weird must be the winter wind as it sweeps 
around the turrets and passes through the broken casements ! Then 
they who chance to find themselves belated within the deserted precincts 
shudder and breathe silently. For though the bats cling to the walls and 
the owl fastens itself within the ivy or the cranny, yet ever and anon the 
tempest tears them therefrom, and in the gathering gloom they are driven 
out, like unearthly creatures, ghosts and imps, that cannot rest and have 
no home. As in similar places, there have lived here men, and there 
have been done here deeds, dark and sad, the thought of whom and of 
which may well make the blood chill. Indeed, on the ceilings of two of 
the bed-chambers now used are pictures of angels in paradise, playing 
with harps, resting on clouds or wandering through meadows, and of 
angels in perdition, horrible to look upon and writhing in torments ; and 
it is said that some occupant of the castle, remote from the present day, 
being troubled with an evil conscience, and thereby being made uncom- 
fortable at the sight of so much joy and so much misery, got a bucket of 
whitewash and sought to brush out both saints and sinners. He was not 
wholly successful : the paintings remain, and he and his guilt are for- 
gotten; for the iron bedsteads have been put into these rooms, — thereby 
creating a"n incongruity which is little short of sin, — within the memory of 
man. Human nature varies with the generations, sometimes good and 
sometimes bad ; and one who knows what the past has been, does not 
care about the time of midnight to walk along the path at the west front 
of the mansion. 



134 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

I have used the words "castle" and "mansion," for there are two 
separate buildings : the former, the older and more imposing stronghold, 
is still inhabitable; while the latter, a little to the south of the castle, 
though far more picturesque, and suggesting Haddon Hall in more par- 
ticulars than one, is deserted and in ruins. There are trees growing in 
its corridors and grass covers its floors. The ivy clambers over its roof- 
less walls, affording shelter for innumerable flocks of small birds, and also 
tempting the boys of the neighborhood, in their search for nests, or for 
young jackdaws or callow starlings or owls, to run the risk of breaking 
their necks. In the rooms, where once abode people of high degree, by 
day the sparrow hops and chirps, and by night the bat seeks its prey. 
And yet, in 1633, when King Charles I was the guest of its lord, the 
Marquis of Newcastle, the place was in all the glory of freshness and art. 
Tapestry of wondrous workmanship covered its now fissured walls, and 
sculpture and painting were represented in noble illustrations. The size 
of the rooms was extraordinary ; the dining-room measured eighty feet in 
length by thirty-three in breadth, while the principal hall had an exten- 
sion of 220 feet by twent3 r -eight. The whole western front of both 
palace and castle is about 150 yards. In the struggle between the King 
and the Parliament, the Cromwellians secured possession of Bolsover, but 
the decay of the palace seems to have been due more to neglect than to 
their depredations. 

The Marquis of Newcastle, Sir William Cavendish, who, in those 
troublesome times, owned this manor, was one of the King's most faithful 
followers, and was regarded in his day as a pattern of chivalry and of 
gentleness. He also wrote some plays, which his widow thought most 
excellent, but which posterity have set aside as worthless, as they have 
also his pretensions to military or political skill. In few things, how- 
ever, does he seem to have displayed his talents more brilliantly than in 
the entertainments which he gave his royal master. Both at Welbeck 
and at Bolsover his hospitality was on a scale scarcely second to that of a 
prince, and outrivalling even Leicester's reception of Queen Elizabeth at 
Kenilworth. On one of these occasions, at Bolsover, in 1 634, Ben Jonson 
produced a masque entitled " Love's Welcome," which was played on 
the grand terrace in front of the now ruined building. To this feast all 
the gentry of the country were invited, and the place was made brilliant 
by the presence both of the King and Queen and of many cavaliers, 
gallants and court beauties. It cost the Marquis .£14,000 — an enormous 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 135 

sum for those days. In less than fifteen years' time the King had lost 
his head, and the Marquis was an exile ; and now the sheep graze and 
rooks pick worms where the feet of pretty maidens and noble swains 
danced to the music of the viol. 

Sir William Cavendish's second wife was Margaret, eighth and last 
child of Sir Thomas Lucas, Knight, of St. John's, Colchester, and sister 
of that Sir Charles Lucas, who, after serving most gallantly in the royal 
army, was by the parliamentarians shot — the inscription put on his tomb 
later says, " in cold blood barbarously murdered" — August 28, 1648, in 
the castleyard at Colchester. Margaret's family, like herself, were all 
royalists, and found in Sir Charles' answer to his enemies an echo of their 
own spirit : " I am no traitor, but a true subject to my King and the laws 
of my kingdom." She had been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and was 
a woman of singular beauty and of rare accomplishments. Tall and 
stately, with brown hair and a clear voice, and gifted with sprightliness 
of intelligence and some literary skill, she was all her life much admired 
and imitated. Perhaps few people living have read either her plays or 
her poems, though the former are as spicy as Aphra Behn could have 
made them — if that be an attraction, and some of the latter are not 
unworthy of being placed beside those of Robert Herrick. Her best work 
is her biography of her husband, which, with her own autobiography, 
still holds rank as a masterpiece. No one need run away with the tradi- 
tion that John Milton looked to her for inspiration ; that is even less 
likely than that Boswell followed her lead as a biographer, or Addison 
regarded her as a model of style. Her surest claim to respect rests, not 
so much upon her books, as upon her purity of life and her faithfulness to 
her husband. In all his troubles — and for his attachment to the King, 
he is believed to have lost .£700,000; and money then had a purchasing 
value ten times what it now has — she clung to him and defended him ; 
and when prosperity came again, with the return of the King, notwith- 
standing his having been created first Duke of Newcastle, she drew him 
away from the court, induced him to live in the country, and helped him 
to gather together the " chips," as he called them, of his former estates. 
And the noble couple lived together at Bolsover, exemplary for their 
virtues and beloved for their graces, and while managing their property 
to the advantage both of themselves and of their dependants, also con- 
tributed to the literature of the day and received the high commenda- 
tions of men such as Hobbes and Bishop Pearson. She died in the 



136 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

winter of 16; 3-4, and her husband three years later. Both lie together 
in the north transept of Westminster Abbey. On the magnificent tomb 
is the sentence, than which nothing can be finer: "Her name was 
Margaret Lucas, youngest daughter of Lord Lucas, Earl of Colchester, a 
noble family, for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtu- 
ous. " The next Duke of Newcastle, Henry, also lived much at Bolsover; 
and when he died was buried in the parish church, where his monument 
appears as one of the wonders of the neighborhood. 

But while the mansion in which these noble people lived is now 
untenanted, save by cheiroptera and the like, the great, square castle was 
used, curiously enough, for many years as a vicarage. Instead of a baron 
or a knight, served by retainers clad in mail and armed with swords, the 
great fortress then became the home of the parson of the town. It is a 
strange place for a parish priest to find himself in, and unless he were 
possessed of means far beyond those afforded by the poor living of Bol- 
sover, he must have found it difficult to keep the property in anything 
like decent style. There are ghosts thereabouts, too, I am sure ; though 
as ghosts never trouble clergymen or other good folks, that is no serious 
inconvenience. Perhaps, on the other hand, a clergyman amid such sur- 
roundings would trouble himself but little about things and people from 
the unseen world. Certainly, life here is now quiet enough — a sort of St. 
Martin summer-time: tranquil, hazy, dull and beautiful. Next to watch- 
ing the clouds creeping up the hillside, the greatest excitement — provided 
the parson is not troubled with overmuch interest in higher criticism — is 
chasing through, say, the Star Chamber, some black or brown descendant 
of the ancient Norman beetles ; and a noble room that Star Chamber is 
for the purpose. The ceiling is painted blue and dotted with gold stars, 
to represent the night sky ; only, as the gilding and colors have faded, the 
spectator must imagine that a thin fog has arisen, through which the 
heavenly bodies shine but dimly. On the walls are representations of 
twelve Roman emperors, sombre rather, but then they were sombre 
individuals. The fireplace is superb, and there is a collection of odds and 
ends well worth seeing. Another interesting apartment is the "Pillar- 
parlor," so called because a stone shaft rises from the middle of the floor 
and supports the arched roof. The walls are wainscoted and are adorned 
with some indifferent paintings. Possibly the pictures are not quite as 
bad as the gas fixture, which, like a huge anachronism, hangs from the 
ceiling. The rooms are all small and variously furnished. Altogether, 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 137 

one may be thankful one has not to live there, though the family of the 
late Rev. John Hamilton Gray made it their home for more than fifty 
years. And it is pleasant to know that as that clergyman by his long 
incumbency had become part of the life of Bolsover, so, too, he left a 
name honored and respected. He was scholarly, genial and benevolent, 
and his kindly deeds, we are assured, have not faded from the memories 
of his parishioners. 

The parson now lives in the vicarage near the church, and, therefore, 
he no longer hears of a dark night the weird noises, which either the 
winds or the dead make in the vaulted passages or the gloomy subter- 
ranean chambers. That is the portion of others less favored than he. A 
traveller to Bolsover some years ago tells how he was taken through the 
buildings by the old woman who with her husband then lived on the 
premises. She conducted the stranger to the cellars that are said to be 
the remains of the Norman keep. A chamber with a high vaulted roof 
was used as a kitchen, and an ancient stone passage connected it with a 
crypt ; beneath this, she told him, there was a church, never opened since 
the days of Peveril. Their voices had a hollow sound, and their footsteps 
awakened echoes as if from a large empty space beneath ; the servants, 
she said, were afraid to come down where they were, excepting by twos 
and threes, and she added — to quote the words as they are given in Mr. 
Joel Cook's excellent book on "England" : "Many people have seen 
things here besides me ; something bad has been done here, sir, and when 
they open that church below they'll find it out. Just where you stand by 
that door I have several times seen a lady and gentleman — only for a 
moment or two, for they come like a flash ; when I have been sitting in 
the kitchen, not thinking of any such thing, they stood there — the 
gentleman with ruffles on, the lady with a scarf round her waist ; I never 
believed in ghosts, but I have seen them. I am used to it now, and don't 
mind it, but we do not like the noises because they disturb us. Not long 
ago my husband, who comes here at night, and I could not sleep at all, 
and we thought at last that somebody had got shut up in the castle, for 
some children had been here that day ; so we lit a candle and went all 
over it, but there was nothing, only the noises following us, and keeping 
on worse than ever after we left the rooms, though they stopped while we 
were in them." 

Perhaps the good woman's story suggests well enough the dolesome 
and dreary depths of the old castle. It may be cheerful enough on the 



i3§ WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

battlements when the sun is shining and the swallows twitter about the 
chimney pots, but few would care to spend the midnight in the dun- 
geons where even the spider and the fly never come. Possibly the "ghost' ' 
may be nothing worse than a thin, hungry rat, yet a rat is not a pleasant 
companion by candlelight. 

But we enter the little town itself. It has begun to feel the influence 
of modern life and progress, probably much to its material and social 
advantage, though quite as much to the regret of those who love the 
olden time, and dislike to see the customs of the fathers pass away. Good 
things are railways, schools, model cottages, and other improvements 
which the nineteenth century has brought forward with unsparing energy 
and unrivalled skill, but still one does not like to think of pit chimneys 
belching their smoke over the daisies and cowslips of Bolsover meadows, 
or of the engine mingling its shrill whistle with the song of blackbird or 
skylark. It will be right enough when we get used to it ; only it takes a 
long time and a cruel, hard effort to tear from the hearts of the older folk 
the memory of the days when the sunshine fell pure and clear upon the 
rosebuds, and the brooks knew the gleam of the trout and the glory of 
the snow-white lily. Dawley water is clean enough now, but when the 
mine kennels and the shop gutters flow therein, some people, whose 
minds and souls can still think of and desire things other than the gross 
and material things which this age loves, will discern in the blackened 
stream an emblem of grief for the bygone days. To some extent these 
changes which are coming to Bolsover mean more bread and better homes 
for the poor ; and no one can doubt that a cold and hungry man would 
rather have a bucket of coals or a Yarmouth herring, than a bunch of the 
most beautiful wild-flowers you could find on Bolsover hills. Nor is it 
to be questioned but that cleanliness, good food, well- arranged houses and 
sufficient clothing help considerably towards furthering intellectual devel- 
opment and securing spiritual freedom. Nobody can serve God aright or 
enjoy either art or literature, when pinched by poverty, and driven to the 
verge of desperation by the thousand and one evils which follow closely 
in the train of poverty. Moreover it is not work which troubles most 
people, but the want of it ; and it is certain that commercial enterprise 
does provide employment whereby both man and woman, boy and girl, 
may get an honest livelihood, and live independent alike of the squire's 
charity and of the parson's generosity. I shall never believe it to be well 
for the villager, that he should exist chiefly as a specimen upon whom 




3 
£1 
'J 






'.3 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 139 

godly rich people may exercise their gifts, and thereby advance their own 
salvation. Rather do I hold that he should be able to earn enough to 
pay his way, and to further his interests without fear or favor. Nay, I 
am radical enough to think that it would be nobler and better for the 
great men of the country to help him to do so, rather than to dole out to 
him at Christmas so many hundredweights of coal, and so many pounds 
of beef. Almsgiving is nice and commendable, but work-giving is far 
more beautiful, and far more to be desired. Therefore, I am glad to know 
that even Bolsover is beginning to feel the mighty and irresistible cur- 
rents of modern progress. I would not, if I had the power, bid the 
throbbing cease which tells of greater life and of greater self-respect, if 
not of greater happiness, in the days near at hand. Nevertheless, I like 
better to look back upon the old, quiet life, and dream of fuchsias and 
geraniums in the cottage windows, — unspecked by soot and tended by hands 
more used to plucking weeds in the garden than to guiding the bobbins 
of the loom, — than anticipate dust flying in the air, and bells and whistles 
clanging and screaming, at morning, noon and night. So without 
any ill-will to the things that are coming fast, I shall say what I have 
to say of Bolsover as Bolsover was before her peace was broken by the 
hope of wealth and growth. 

Fortunately the village has not gone so far ahead as to make it 
necessary to bring into play the full force of memory or of imagination. 
The present has not torn itself altogether from the past, and it may be 
questioned if there is another place of the same size in all England that 
has retained so much of its quaint antiquity. There are still streets 
where dogs lie in the sunshine and hens scratch for a living ; and even in 
High Street and in the little square around which are the houses of some 
of the principal folk of the place, people saunter along as leisurely as 
though time were no consideration, and seem to be as free from all 
interest in the anxieties of the great world outside as even Mr. Ruskin 
would have them. There was a time when the town had a consequence 
which it has long since lost. Few places were more famous for the 
manufacture of spurs and buckles, and until the Bolsover craftsmen made 
known the secret whereby they could convey a high polish to the malleable 
iron, good promise was there of a Sheffield among the Derbyshire hills. 
So skilfully was the work done, that it is said the wheels of a loaded 
cart might pass over a Bolsover spur or bit, and it would retain its shape 
and elasticity. Then was Bolsover a market town, and probably had a 



140 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

population exceeding that which it now has. But the trade passed away 
and the glory the place enjoyed five centuries agone departed, and with- 
out either commercial enterprise or political excitement the village became 
solely an agricultural centre, the resort of yeomen, husbandmen, carters 
and shepherds. As the land hereabouts is remarkably fertile and rents 
have been always reasonable, farming has flourished without let or 
hindrance; and, as everybody knows, farming implies, besides a knowledge 
of nature and a conservatism of thought and habit, good health, sturdy 
independence, dogged perseverance, with some shrewdness and not a little 
dullness. The people are, indeed, more akin to the keen, practical 
Yorkshireman than to the softer and more genial inhabitants of the 
southern counties. They are rather Scandinavian than Saxon, more 
Norse than English ; and therefore do they possess a forcefulness, a clear 
determination, a rude, straightforward way of putting things and a calm, 
unexcitable cautiousness, which, to say the least, are not as common on 
the sunny side of the Trent. Their carefulness and thrift are to be con- 
sidered beside their hospitality and friendliness. It may take some time 
to get into the heart of one of these Northern folk, but when you once 
get in you stay there. And he who has had a muggin of home-brewed 
or a cup of milk at the hands of one of the bonny lasses which you may 
see any day on a Derbyshire farm, will be thankful that Bolsover gave up 
making gear for horses, and took to growing barley and rearing sheep 
and oxen. 

The plain-speaking .and naive simplicity, combined with discretion, 
common among these people, are illustrated in two or three stories, which 
have not been told so often but that they will be new to my reader. A 
north-countryman went to London, and when there visited one of those 
stores, such as the Bon Marche in Paris or Mr. Wanamaker's in Phila- 
delphia, where next to everything is sold. Robin was much pleased 
with the place, and at last he asked the shopman, "What diz ta keep 
here?" "Oh! everything," replied the man. Robin came from the 
shire whose edge almost touches Bolsover on the north ; but he was of 
the same species as are the folk you meet here at the " Swan," and he 
answered, "Ah dean't think thoo diz ; hes ta onny coo-tah nobs ? " The 
shopman had never heard of a coo-tah nob, and possibly m}' reader does 
not know that it is the piece of wood which secures the " tie " for the 
legs of cows when being milked. Another northern man, elderly in 
years, had married and lost three wives. It was rumored that he was 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 141 

about to enter for the fourth time into wedlock ; but to that he said, 
" Naay, nut ah ; what wi' marryin' on 'em an' what wi' burryin' on 'em, 
it's ower expensive. Ah can't affo'd it nae mair." 

A Sheffield lawyer — author of a most interesting brochure on Derby- 
shire — says that he was once coming towards his native town in a market 
coach, when at one of the villages the coach took up a number of Derby- 
shire housewives with their baskets of butter covered with snowy napkins 
— and some laden with cherries and currants — until all the room became 
pretty well occupied. A little further on another market-woman presented 
herself, laden with a basket of fruit. She was stout and elderly, and 
neither she nor her basket could be stowed away in a corner. Still, she 
was a friend and a neighbor, and could not be left behind. So one called 
out cheerily, " Come, Biddy, hand up your basket and then get up yersel' 
and we'll mak' room for you somehow." Up went the basket, and 
afterwards the old lady herself was landed. An attempt was made by 
squeezing closely together to find a seat. " Come, Biddy, try and sit 
you here, and then you shall tak' your basket." The good woman, 
however, took a general survey, and observing that the lawyer's knees 
were the only ones unoccupied, replied, " Nay, thank ye, I'll sit uppa 
t' mester's knee ! " Her weight was about thirteen stone — 182 pounds. 
Fortunately the neighbors persuaded her that the plan was not quite the 
thing, and other arrangements were made. 

Two other stories, told by this self-same solicitor, ought not to be 
forgotten. Derbyshire parsons are sometimes as plain spoken as their 
parishioners. One of them was reading in the Second Lesson the parable 
of the Supper lrom which the invited guests all made excuses, when he 
came to the passage, " I have bought a piece of land, and I must needs 
go and see it." "Ah ! " said he, "here's a pretty fool for you, to go and 
buy a close of land he'd never seen in his life." All ministers, however, 
do not make things as clear as did this divine. A Methodist preacher 
evidently did not. After some time spent in one district he was removed 
to another, and some years later returned to his former charge to enjoy 
part of his holidays. Calling at a farm-house, the inmates of which had 
formerly been members of his flock, he found the good wife at home, and 
after a few personal inquiries, asked, "Well, and how is James?" — 
meaning the master. "Ah! maybe ye've not heeard, then?" said the 
good wife, looking very serious. " Oh ! I hope nothing has happened," 
said the minister." "Yea," replied she, wiping her eyes with the corner 



142 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

of her apron, "since you left he's gone to Beelzebub's bosom." "No, 
no, Mary, you've got the wrong word." " Well," she said, "it's one of 
thern Greek names — you understand 'em better nor I do." 

At the beginning of this century timepieces were not as well known 
in country houses as they are now. A farmer, however, had purchased 
and brought home a clock ; and one day a neighbor's wife went in to ask 
what time it was by the new clock. The good wife of the house replied, 
"Well, I canna tell you correctly, for I dunna reightly underston the 
thing myself; but I'll tell you what, if you'll just sit you down a bit and 
wait till you hear it smite, and then count, ye'll kno' freight time." This 
was at Stoney Middleton, a few miles from Bake well, a place famous for 
a church, so the guide-books say, which is a model of ugliness. "It is 
octagonal in all its parts except the short square tower which in connec- 
tion with the rest of the building looks rather like the head of a cat, the 
eight- sided sort of lantern which rises to a greater height from the body 
of the church behind representing the back of the same animal in an 
irritated frame of mind." Plenty of similar stories abound, but these 
must suffice for this purpose. 

It is difficult for the stranger to detect and express the peculiarities of 
the dialect common, not only in the neighborhood of Bolsover, but also 
throughout the more remote parts of the shire. I gathered many illustra- 
tions, but I fear to venture on giving them to my reader ; and instead 
thereof I transcribe the following specimen from Halliwell's " Dictionary 
of Archaic and Provincial Words." The leading feature of the dialect is 
its broad pronunciation. Perhaps some will find pleasant suggestions of 
old words, phrases and customs here and there in this example : 

A Dialogue Between Farmer Bennet and Tummus Lide. 

Farmer Bennet : Tummus, why dunner yo mend meh shoom? 

Tummus Lide : Becoz, mester, 'tis zo cood, I conner work wee the tachin at 
aw. I've brockn it ten times. I'm shur to de — it freezes zo 
hard. Why, Hester hung out a smock-frock to dry, an in 
three minits it wor frozzen as stiff as a proker, an I conner 
afford to keep a good fire ; I wish I cud. I'd soon mend yore 
shoon, and uthers tow. I'd soon yarn sum munney, I war- 
rant ye. Conner yo find sum work for m', mester, these 
hard times? I'll doo onnythink to addle a penny. I con 
thresh — I con split wood — I con mak spars — I con thack. I 
con skower a dike, an I con trench tow, but it freezes zo 
hard. I con winner — I con fother, or milk, if there be need 
on't. I woodner mind drivin plow or onnythink. 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 143 

Farmer B. : I hanner got nothin for ye to doo, Tummus ; but Mester Boord 
towd me jist now that they wor gooin to winner, an that 
they shud want sunibody to help 'em. 

Tummus L. : O, I'm glad on't. I'll run oor an zee whether I con help 'em ; 
bur I hanner bin weein the threshold ov Mester Boord's doer 
for a nation time, becoz I thoot Misses didner use Hester 
well ; bur I dunner bear malice, an zo I'll goo. 

Farmer B. : What did Mrs. Boord za or doo to Hester then ? 

Tummus L. : Why, Hester may be wor summut to blame too ; for her were one 
on 'em, de ye zee, that jawd Skimmerton, — the make-jam 
that fruuted zum o'the gentefook. They said 'twar time to 
dun wee sich litter, or sich stuff, or I dunner know what 
they cawd it ; but they war frunted wee Hester bout it ; an 
I said, if they wor frunted wee Hester, they mid be frunted 
wee mee. This set misses's back up, an Hester hanner bin 
a charrin there sin. But 'tis no use to bear malice : an zo 
I'll go oor, and zee which we the winde blows. 

The School Board and the Railway are making quick work with dia- 
lects, and before many years, unless Providence mercifully intervenes, we 
shall all speak English after one fashion — dull, monotonous and feature- 
less. But there are still plenty of people living who speak exactly as 
Farmer Bennet and Thomas L,ide spoke ; and many more who can remem- 
ber both the words used and the manners indicated by them. Kven my 
reader who has never heard the dialect will not, I trust, fail to appreciate 
the humor which here and there crops out. 

We leave the castle by the gate, and entering Castle L,ane, pass the 
National School Buildings, and turn into High Street. That thorough- 
fare has changed but little in the past fifty years, and, therefore, presents 
a good, and withal a pleasant, picture of old Bolsover. Changes have 
come more to the people than to the houses : the sons have taken the 
fathers' places, and the cottages have gathered further darkening from 
age and sunshine or storm. And were a native of the town, who had 
known it, say, half a century since, to come back again, he could easily 
recognize the landmarks and the footprints as still fresh with associations 
and rich with memories. For instance, here on our right hand yet stand 
the house and the garden where once lived Brooks, the stone-mason, and 
there across the way was the little grocer-shop kept by Thomas Wall, who 
not only sold sugar and tea — the former with that rich brown color now 
almost forgotten, and the latter done up in packages and labelled Black, 
Mixed or Green — but he also drove a carrier's cart once a week to Mans- 



144 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

field ; and many a pleasantry could be told in which " Old Tommy " had 
a part. Next door but one to the grocer's place was the home of Mr. 
John Bennett, the prosperous shoemaker of the town, and the principal 
man in the Wesleyan Chapel there. He had a little shop up a court close 
by, which shop adjoined the garden at the back of his house ; later his 
family and his business were removed to the other side of the street. Five- 
and-forty or more years ago the old shop was the resort, not only of those 
concerned in boots and shoes, but also of many who desired to talk over 
with Mr. Bennett matters of even greater importance. For he was a good 
man in the best sense of the term — honest-dealing, straightforward, pious 
and bright- minded ; and though he has been long in his grave, yet the 
counsels he gave and the lessons he taught, both by word and by exam- 
ple, are still bearing fruit in many lives. Only a few steps further on is 
the gate which opens into the passage-way leading up to the old Independ- 
ent Chapel. You may have gathered from these pages, and from similar 
pages which I have from time to time written, that my sympathy, indeed, 
kind reader, my whole nature, flow strongly away from anything that 
savors of division in the Church of Christ. I am a churchman through 
and through ; but my churchmanship is not of such a quality that I can 
see no good outside of Anglicanism, or condemn wholesale those who 
honestly and conscientiously refuse to hold some principles which to me 
are scarcely of less consequence than the foundation doctrines of Chris- 
tianity. And if there be a place of worship in England not connected 
with the Church of England, of which I think kindly, it is this old chapel 
in Bolsover. This is partly because I have a very dear friend whose early 
Christian training was obtained there, and, therefore, I know something 
of the kind of people brought up within its walls, and partly because the 
building has a history. It is said to be the oldest nonconformist place 
of worship in Derbyshire, having been built in the year 1662. 

There was a young man, Thomas Seeker by name, who, in 17 16, 
sought for its pulpit. He was unsuccessful, possibty not being thought 
of sufficient ability, but he went into the Church of England, and 
nineteen years later was consecrated Bishop of Bristol, and eventually 
became Archbishop of Canterbury. He wrote a book on the Catechism, 
which I read when a boy, but its contents are not as fresh to me now as 
is the fact that in his last illness the Archbishop's bones became brittle 
as chalk, so that his legs could not be moved without breaking them. In 
the croft next to the chapel the annual feast used to be held, and the 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 145 

little Independents drank milk, ate buns and played games with an 
avidity even greater than that with which their elders sang hymns and 
discussed theology. This croft belonged to the Pearces — one of the most 
influential of the Bolsover families. The large three- story house across 
the street, with the stable, malt room and other farm buildings, belonged 
to them ; also the barn and stockyard beyond the cottages and the house 
where Mr. Shacklock kept his school. There are other houses, barns or 
cottages which belonged to farmers or laborers, some of them very old, 
as may be supposed from their brown and grey walls, little windows and 
thatched roofs. The Blue Bell Inn is one of the oldest taverns in the 
town, and merrily and wholesomely was it kept when old Mr. Bond was 
alive. Here and there courts and lanes lead either to gardens or to the 
country or to other parts of the town, each having something about it 
that awakens the memories of the past, and even interests strangers who 
care nothing for a place they had never before seen. And outside of 
some of the cottage doors are still standing, beside the scraper, the 
upturned bucket and the birch broom, while hanging to a nail above is 
the round wicker cage in which magpie, daw or starling feeds on mice or 
hempseed, and becomes excited at passers-by. The church is at the end 
of the street, but we will go there by-and-bye. 

In the meanwhile we turn out of High Street into a narrower thor- 
oughfare called, if I remember right, Cotton Street, and find our way 
into the upper market place or square. A cross standing out in the road- 
way reminds us of days when Englishmen were not afraid to have the 
signs of religion in the midst of their common life. Not far off is the 
Anchor Inn, once kept by a tall and stately man named Carter. In the 
same neighborhood is another widening of the street, which is also called 
a square, and in which appears the " Swan " — the inn for which Bolsover 
is almost famous. 

And now let us go together, gentle reader, you and I, into that old 
house, a picture of which you will find in this book; and allow me to say 
that the water-color from which my sketch is taken, is the only represen- 
tation of the house in existence. If you were to search the country 
through you would not find a more typical old-fashioned village hostelry; 
and much as the stranger may delight in the "Green Man" at Ash- 
bourne, and in the " Peacock ' ' at Rowsley, he will not quite under- 
stand the tavern-life of olden times till he has seen and studied the 
" Swan " at Bolsover. It has latticed windows and ' ' ceilings blackened 



146 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

by the hand of time, and heavy with beams ; ' ' and one of those beams is 
carved most curiously, and some people say is as much worth seeing as any- 
thing in the old castle. There is an air of comfort and antiquity in the 
low, clean and neatly furnished rooms; and if you fear not the aroma of 
tobacco and ale, you will find that the tap-room or kitchen is the very 
place for high cheer and good company. The floors look as though every 
day scrubbed and whitened with bath brick. Perhaps upstairs the look- 
ing-glasses have about them too many evidences of age, but some wise- 
acre has declared that vanity is the only fruit of toilet-lucubrations ; and, 
therefore, it would be well if ladies arranged their tresses by the well- 
side, as country-women did when this inn was built. As to men, in old 
times, they either wore wigs or had somebody else comb their hair for 
them. But the beds, downy, soft, billowy, sweet, are superb. All 
travellers agree on that point. And also on the good quality and the free 
quantity of the refreshments. Who can doubt the potency of the ale, 
when it is of the kind Cherry's father sold at Lichfield ? While as to the 
landlady's skill, many a guest has felt like making the words of an old 
playwright his own : "I did voraciously admire her prodigious knack of 
making cheese cakes, tarts, custards and syllabubs." 

I wish that I could tell you of some of the merry souls who have 
tapped their pewter mugs on the deal tables of this inn. Generation after 
generation of the village fathers have gathered here ; and in the great 
room club-dinners, tithe suppers, and even balls, have been given year 
by year for longer than men can now remember. Among the characters, 
however, who used to come into the tap-room and warm his hands at the 
blazing fire, was old John Whittaker, dead and gone now many a long 
day. He was blind, and made his livelihood by selling nuts and oranges; 
but few men hereabouts had clearer conceptions of things or knew better 
what was going on in the world. He was a centre of intellectual interest 
in the town. How he gathered and digested his information was a 
wonder. It was verily here a little and there a little — a scrap from this 
cottage door, and a bit from that passer by. He wandered over the 
country-side from farm to farm and inn to inn, everywhere welcomed, 
because everywhere known, respected and liked. And people went to 
him for advice, and in return bought his little stock, and sought to make 
his heart bright, though his eyes saw not the bloom of the briar or the 
drift of the snow. There were others, too, farmers, trades-folk and 
laborers, each with his own individuality, some liked and some disliked, 




g 






WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 147 

but all fulfilling the purpose of their life and fitting into the social 
economy. 

At this old inn used to be held every three weeks a Copyhold Court, 
when the steward of the Lord of the Manor met the tenants and others, 
and settled such matters as were within his jurisdiction. All the land of 
the parish is copyhold, and the greater part of it belongs to the Duke of 
Portland. The market day was Friday, as far back as the year 1225, but 
Bolsover ceased to be a market town about the middle of the seventeenth 
century ; and for many years some of the fairs and mops anciently held 
here have been discontinued. But the Feast Week, beginning on the 
Sunday nearest to St. Laurence's Day, August io, is still observed, and in 
it comes the annual horticultural show. A fair is also held in April and 
in October. On these occasions Bolsover becomes unusually lively, and 
hilarity and goodfellowship prevail as well in the taverns and streets as 
in the cottages. Neighbors from the country and from villages and towns 
round about come in — farmers and their wives and daughters, stout and 
rosy, well-favored, as the old writers would have called them, and as the 
fresh air and good living of Derbyshire make them — and with them people 
of humbler circumstances, the work-folk and peasants, whose fathers 
generation after generation shod horses at the same forge or ploughed 
the same fields. Needless to say that at such times the "Swan" appears 
in its glory. And though smock-frocks and hob-nails are fast disappearing, 
and people eat less bacon and drink less ale than they formerly did, yet 
there is fun enough and noise enough to satisfy the most ardent lover of 
the mirthful and hospitable old times. The fiddler still makes merry 
melody, and the young folks dance till the clock tells the hour of closing 
and home-going. Cheap John, too, displays his wares in the market- 
place, and, amid the spluttering of paraffin and the rattling of carts and 
tongues, gives to a Sheffield knife or a Brummagem brush qualities far 
beyond anything that rigid integrity justifies. But as he comes year after 
year and sells goods to the same people, it is evident that his exaggera- 
tions are either condoned or forgotten. And, after all, some of these 
travelling showmen are better at heart than their words or their coats 
would indicate. There are boys who have bought from them puppies and 
mice, offspring of some dog or some mouse that has been trained to per- 
form wonderful feats, and though the hopes that the little brute would 
grow up as wise and clever as its parents are seldom fulfilled, yet no lad 
ever complains that his pet has disappointed him. He believes there is 



148 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

good in the creature, and he will train him diligently and lovingly ; and 
possibly dream of the days when, school over and business begun, he may 
exhibit his workmanship at neighboring fairs, and thus turn over an 
honest penny. 

And if you could only go into one of the shows that are brought to 
the fair, you would see wonders that go far beyond anything that an 
Italian relic chamber contains, which is saying a great deal. Rarely is 
the booth absent in which are exhibited the biggest woman and the 
tiniest full-grown man that the world has ever known ; giants and Tom 
Thumbs, with their children, who can perform the most marvellous feats, 
and who have been the admiration of all the crowned heads of Europe. 
There are sure, also, to be a whale's mouth and some lions' teeth, about 
which the showman will tell outrageous stories, not hesitating to declare 
his willingness to make an affidavit before any magistrate in the country 
that this was the very whale's mouth into which he one day chanced to 
fall, when he would have been swallowed alive, only, as he began to 
choke the monster, he was ejected, and, after several hours swimming in 
the great sea, was picked up by a boat engaged in keeping icebergs from 
knocking against the cliffs of Old England. As to the lions' teeth, he 
will swear with equal haste and honesty that one of them belonged to 
the generous animal which was tamed by Androcles, which same animal, 
in a fit of forgetfulness, and being perhaps provoked at some tricks 
played on him, once bit the showman on the calf of the leg, — and if any 
gentleman in the company doubts that, he has only to step inside the 
booth, and he will show him the marks, as red and blue now as they 
were when inflicted, and as they will be on the day of his death. As he 
tells these tales the peoples' mouths open wide, their eyes dilate and they 
are convinced that the world has more wonderful things in it than calves 
born with two heads or sheep yeaned with six legs. Joe Miller tells of 
a keeper of such a museum who showed the very sword with which 
Balaam was about to kill the ass ; but he was interrupted by one of the 
visitors, who reminded him that Balaam had no sword, but only wished 
for one. " True, sir," replied the ready-witted cicerone; " but this is the 
very sword he wished for. ' ' My reader will not need me to give the 
name of the genial Master who repeats this story with much merriment 
and appreciation. 

And there are racing, jumping and skittle-playing. The shooting- 
gallery and the roundabout keep up a brisk business through the livelong 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 149 

day. The barrel-organs grind out incessantly their ancient and well-worn 
melodies ; while here, in one corner, is a huge tub in which the boys 
strive to catch with open mouth apples or oranges floating on the water, 
and yonder is a platform with a rope stretched across, to which rope buns 
dipped in treacle are attached by long pieces of string. No merrier sight 
is there than to see half a dozen country lads trying to seize with their 
teeth these cakes dripping with sticky sweetness. Once in a while 
someone boasts of having accomplished this exploit, or others of like 
difficult) 7 , and then the neighbors cry " Elden Hole wants filling ! " 

In earlier times might have been seen at these gatherings the 
stewards, butlers and serving- men of the country gentry, bent on frolic 
and sport. Big folks were they, and much feared and envied by the 
villagers. Perhaps their abilities deserved respect ; certainly the running 
footmen could do as great marvels as the most agile athlete of the present 
day, and were in their way as skilful as the men who drew the bow in the 
greenwood or cast the quoit beneath the elms. Mary Howitt preserves in 
one of her books the legend of the servitor belonging to Sir John Manners 
— the same Manners who married Dorothy Vernon — who in one night ran 
from Haddon Hall to Bolsover and back again. The distance is not far 
short of one hundred miles, and the runner was slight in figure and 
scarcely twenty years old. It was evening when Sir John gave him a 
letter with orders to set out at daybreak for Bolsover, and lose no time 
either in going or in returning. The next morning Sir John arose 
betimes ; and being impatient for his reply, went into the kitchen to 
inquire at what hour the youth had set forth. Before, however, he could 
ask any questions, he saw his dilatory messenger, as he supposed him to 
be, sitting on a wooden bench, with his head leaning on one of the large 
tables, fast asleep. The sight enraged him, for he instantly supposed that 
the youth had not yet set out, and with the riding-whip which he happened 
to have in his hand, he began to beat him unmercifully, for people were 
often neither merciful nor gentle in those days, and with every cut he gave 
him he abused him for his laziness and neglect of duty. The boy, thus 
rudely disturbed, started up. "Villain!" exclaimed Sir John, "why 
have you not done my bidding? " " I have been to Bolsover and back !" 
said the youth. "You said that the letter needed diligence, and diligence 
I have used." Sir John did not believe this ; and thinking it merely an 
excuse, became still more angr} 7 . " Have patience with me, my master ! " 
besought the youth, "and behold the proof of my diligence; " and so 



i 5 o WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

saying, he sprang upon the table, out of the reach of his master'.s whip, 
and held aloft the sealed reply of the Master of Bolsover. Sir John was, 
of course, delighted, and recompensed the lad with a piece of gold for the 
blows he had received. Then it came out that he had spent the night in 
performing the squire's will. 

See these children, ruddy and sturdy, running after the yellow butter- 
flies ! Where could you find healthier or more promising boys and girls ? 
Verily, they seem to have caught the twinkling of the stars in their eyes 
and the warmth of sunbeams in their cheeks. They remind me of two 
little chips I know, one four years old and the other only a year younger, 
plump, sweet rosebuds, such as you do not see every day. One is called 
Lucie and the other Grace. Like other children, they sometimes get into 
mischief. One day, when alone, they had the rare fun of mixing cherry 
tooth-paste and glycerin-soap into a pie for dolly. This was a forbidden 
pastime, and they had to be punished. Lucie came in for the chastise- 
ment first, and while it was being administered, much to their mother's 
perplexity, and, perhaps, amusement, Grace, replete with the wisdom of 
three years, said very soothingly and encouragingly, " Lucie, dear, don't 
cry for spite ! " Not long after this their mother had to leave them, and 
when she kissed them good-bye, Grace exclaimed, "Why, mother, you 
are crying ! " Mother said she had a little dust in her eyes. In a minute 
our little lassie observed, ' ' I think I have seme dust in my eyes also ! ' ' 
She was not to be outdone. It is pleasant to recall such bits of sunshine 
when under the shadow of that great frowning castle and in these strange, 
old-fashioned streets. And these Bolsover children romp and run as 
though grim barons and mailed warriors, or even clowns and showmen, had 
never walked these thoroughfares or listened to tavern- songs. 

One other place in Bolsover, and we will hie back again to the world. 
The Parish Church, dedicated to St. Mary and St. Lawrence, stands in 
the yard at the far end of High Street. The present structure was built 
about seven hundred years ago, and though it has been restored, yet the 
outlines of the old building remain, and some fragments of the still earlier 
edifice may be recognized. On this site stood the first Christian church 
erected in Bolsover, about the year 656 ; and before that time, tradition 
affirms, there was on the same spot a Druid Temple. Possibly, therefore, 
for thousands of years these sacred precincts have witnessed the devotions 
of men ; and certainly, for well nigh fourteen centuries, people have here 
sung Te Deum and said Our Father. The building, however, is not of 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 151 

rare beauty or of peculiar interest. But it contains some monuments of 
the Cavendish family, which never fail to attract the stranger and to con- 
vince the native that, take one thing with another, there is no place like 
Bolsover — in which opinion, though in a somewhat different sense, I 
agree with him. Had I not said so much about tombs elsewhere, I would 
say more of these really imposing and worthy pieces of work ; as it is I 
shall content myself with giving the following inscription from the monu- 
ment of Sir Charles Cavendish, who died in 161 7. 

CHARLES CAVENDISH TO HIS SONS. 

Sonnes, seek me not among these polish'd stones, 
These only hide part of my flesh and bones ; 
Which did they here so neat and proudly dwell, 
Will all be dust, and may not make me swell. 

Let such as have outliv'd all praise, 

Trust in the tombes their careful friends do raise ; 

I made my life my monument, and yours, 

To which there's no material that endures ; 

Nor yet inscription like it. Write but that 
And teach your nephews it to emulate ; 
It will be matter loude enough to tell 
Not when I died, but how I liv'd — Farewell ! 



HIS POSTERITIE OF HIM TO STRANGERS. 

Charles Cavendish was a man whom 
Knowledge, zeal, sincerity, made religious ; 
Experience, discretion, courage made valiant ; 
Reading, conference, judgment, made learned ; 
Religion, valour, learning, made wise ; 
Birth, merit, favour, made noble ; 
Respect, meanes, charitie, made bountiful ; 
Equitie, conscience, office, made just; 
Nobilitie, bountie, justice, made honourable ; 
Counsell, ayde, secrecie, made a trustie friende ; 
Love, truth, constancie, made a kind husband ; 
Affection, advice, care, made a loving father ; 
Friends, wife, sonnes, made content ; 
Wisdom, honour, content, made happy. 



152 WOODS AND DALKS;OF DERBYSHIRE. 

From which happiness he was;translated to the better on the 4th April, 
161 7, yet not without the sad and weeping remembrance of his sor- 
rowful Lady, Katherine ; second daughter to Cuthbert, Lord Ogle, 
and sister to Jane, present Countess of Shrewsbury. She, of her 
piety, with her two surviving sous, have dedicated this humble 
monument to his memory, and do all desire, in their time, to be 
gathered to his dust, expecting the happy hour of resurrection, when 
these garments here puttingioff shall be put on glorified. 

Kit 
Sir Charles deserved the high praise given him, but the information 

given in the latter part of the inscription, of the dignity, piety and desire 

of his widow, somehow or other reminds me of an epitaph which is said 

to be in a cemetery in the environs of Paris : " Here lies Madame N , 

wife of M. N , master blacksmith. The railing round this tomb was 

manufactured by her husband." 

The oldest memorial in the church dates from 13 10. Outside the 

following lines may be found on grave- stones. They have the usual 

quaintness common to epitaphs written in old time : 

Here lies, in an horizontal position, the outside case of Thomas Hinde, 
clock and watch maker, who departed this life, wound up, in hope of 
being takeu in hand by his Maker, and of being thoroughly cleaned, 
repaired, and set going in the world to cotne t 

Blame not my faults 

When I am gone, 
But look within 

And see your own. 

A father kind, a mother dear, 
A faithful pair lies buried here ; 
Free from malice, void of pride, 
So they lived, and so they died. 

I left this world at twenty-two, 

And my sweet babes behind, 
My husband he left them and me, 

To us he was unkind. 
Mercy shew, and pity take, 
And love my children for my sake. 

Once I was stout and bold, 
But at length my Hell was tol'd ; 
Seven children I have left behind, 
And in this yard have buried five. 




angel of tbe IResurrection. 

(Altar -picture in Church at Molde, Norway.) 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 153 

One smiles at epitaphs such as these — not unkindly or even irrever- 
ently, I hope. They are odd, but they also tell of affection and sympathy. 
Tears were shed and hearts trembled beside these graves over which the 
village poet exercised his art. And the friends, you may be sure, were 
entirely unconscious of any suggestion of impropriety in those rhymes. 
On the contrary, thej^ probably thought them most excellent ; and 
though, so far as art goes, too often the rhythm and the rhyme are bad 
and the thought is grotesque, yet once in a while a bit of better work 
appears, as in an inscription in Selstone Churchyard — a village about 
half way between Bolsover and Nottingham ; the date is 1798 : 

Involved in dust here lies the last remains 
Of him who firmly bore life's lingering frames ; 
A much-loved husband and a friend sincere, 
Courteous to all, and to his children dear. 

And when one thinks of these "untold sorrows ' ' which these country 
churchyards have witnessed, and before one's eye, as in a picture, comes 
the spectacle of weeping women and stalwart, pale-faced men, standing 
beside the body of their loved one wrapt in the winding-sheet and about 
to be laid into the earth, one remembers with delight the hold which the 
doctrine of the Resurrection had upon these people. They never doubted 
that the one whose last hours on earth they had sought to brighten was 
at rest with God, and would again stand upon the earth. They felt the 
force and the tenderness of the words which are ever said beside English 
graves : " Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy 
to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed." The 
soul of the dear one who lay before them was not merely taken out of the 
world — that is a cold and lifeless expression — but it was by God's own 
hands taken unto Himself: to endless felicity, and in sure and certain 
hope of the Resurrection to eternal life. So the widow and the orphan 
saw the earth cast upon the body of their dead, and with their simple, 
steadfast faith wrestled hopefully and nobly against the grief that had 
entered into their heart, and addressed themselves to the duties which 
still remained with them. The dead would live again : so spring brought 
back the flowers, and so the angel of the Resurrection told the women 
who came weeping to the grave of their Lord. 



i 5 4 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

Yes, life in these villages and farms is full of quiet interest. I am 
not sure that the people here, say, in Bolsover or the neighborhood, 
appreciate their freedom from the turmoil and tumult of the world — one 
rarely is so satisfied with one's present condition as to realize its charm or to 
know its worth, — but they who have wandered over the earth, and have 
sipped its many pleasures, know that no life is happier and no joy is 
greater than the life and the joy one may find in places such as this. 
Derbyshire is not behind the other counties of England in those beauties 
and graces which give pre-eminence to the people and things of the Eng- 
lish countryside. The religious habits of the agriculturists and village- 
folk generally delight the stranger. On every side rises the church tower, 
reminding men of the stability of the truth, or the church spire pointing 
them upward to the better land. The bells, with their sweet melody flowing 
over hill and dale, meadow, orchard, stream and wood, call the people to 
the place where they may worship their God and hear of the things that 
pertain to their peace. Whether in the mansion or the cottage, religion is 
respected and piety is an honored guest. On the walls of the latter hang 
the samplers wrought by girlish hands long ago, and bearing mottoes such 
as this : 

The loss of time is much, the loss of grace is more ; 
The loss of Christ is such as nothing can restore. 

There the aged dame will cease her knitting and put on her spectacles to 
read, not the newspaper or the novel, but the word of inspiration ; and, in 
the dull eventide, the ancient sire will snuff the dim-burning candle that he 
may the better read once more last Sunday's text. For the scanty meal the 
peasant thanks his God, and ere he lays himself to rest he prays the Lord to 
forgive him his trespasses and to lighten his darkness. And though the 
floor be paved with stones, and the rooms hung with prints long since out 
of date, and the furniture rude and rough, yet the honest people who live 
there go on from day to day happy in the thought that after England 
comes heaven, and perchance in heaven there may be not only golden 
streets, but also flower-strewn fields and crystal streams and chiming bells, 
hills covered with the yellow furze and valleys filled with green wood. 

Let me illustrate this life somewhat, and, leaving Bolsover, let us 
wander through any of the hamlets hereabouts. A drive across the coun- 
try at this time of year is to be desired, and, as we pass by farmhouse 
after farmhouse, we begin to recall the ways and words of the folk who till 
the land and tend the sheep. I will give you from life a sketch of a man 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 155 

I once knew — so well, indeed, that I speak of him as though he were still 
living, and were standing before me. 

He is a farmer, and when not spoken of in legal documents or found 
in the market town, he is addressed and known as Uncle Israel. His 
wealth is considerable, but, having no ancestry worth speaking of and 
never having visited the city, he is plain in his habits and simple in his 
ideas. There is no unnecessary display of learning in his family. The 
children, six of them, the oldest twenty and the youngest twelve years of 
age, know their catechism and the multiplication table, and one of them 
can recite in order the names of the twelve minor prophets. He is looked 
upon as a prodigy, and every Sunday morning, Sammy, for that is his 
name, finds and marks the psalms and collect for the day in the prayer- 
books used by his mother, brothers and sister ; his father, being a Church- 
man of the old school, finding his own places. On returning home after 
service he reads the text out of the big Bible to grandmother, who, after 
remarking that she does not remember that passage, begs him to put a 
cross opposite it, so that she may look at it again at her leisure. Then she 
tells the oft-repeated story of Parson Evans, who, when she was only eight 
years old, now sixt3^ odd years since, patted her on the head and gave her 
sixpence for repeating a verse which she has long since forgotten ; " and," 
adds she, with a smile that is worth many a sixpence to see, " I saved it 
for a twelvemonth, and then gave threepence to the missionaries and with 
the rest bought a red sash." 

It is delightful to see the devotion which Uncle Israel has instilled in 
his young people. They attend family prayers every sunrise and every 
sunset ; their deportment at church is most laudable, the interest in the 
singing having been increased since Sammy joined the choir ; and when 
they' meet the parson or the squire they yield them that respect which is 
their due. Uncle Israel himself never wears his hat in the presence of a 
clergyman, except in rainy weather, when he is afraid of taking cold. Be- 
ing a man of sense, he has set apart a retired spot within a clump of elms, 
about three hundred yards from the house, where disputes and quarrels be- 
tween the boys can be settled by an appeal to those arms which nature has 
provided, and where in case of necessity he can himself administer punish- 
ment at his leisure and convenience. The result of this arrangement is to 
make black eyes and bruised noses rather common, but Uncle Israel gives 
no notice to them unless formal complaint is presented ; then he takes the 
owner of the disfigurements out to the place of chastisement, and adds a 
sound flagellation for having suffered himself to be beaten. " I want my 



156 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

boys," he observes, " to be brought up to fear their betters, and to defend 
their country." 

Four or five times a year Uncle Israel drives into the neighboring 
market- town, and after discharging his debts and buying some trinket for 
his daughter, Sally, and her mother, and the latest city newspaper for the 
granddame, he proceeds with a few old acquaintances to the " George," 
where he dines and gets very jolly, and it is to be feared very drunk. 
About eleven o'clock in the evening he is driven home and put to bed, 
his wife thanking God that it only happens five times a year, and his 
mother remarking that boys will be boys, and that many a man goes off 
every night of his life. The way that Uncle Israel attends to work next 
day shows the depth of his repentance, and the extent of his headache. 
This is the only shortcoming that can fairly be brought against him ; 
though, to be sure, when he takes horses into his meadow to graze, he 
always charges more for long-tailed ones than short, for the reason that 
the latter having to brush away the flies cannot eat as much. 

He tells an amusing legend of having many years ago wheeled his 
landlord, Sir George, from a club-supper in Woolston, where politics and 
punch had been too much for the county member ; and his hearers never 
fail to smile when he describes how, in a dark path in the park, the game- 
keeper intercepted them, and, tumbling him into the barrow beside the 
squire, wheeled them both off to the lodge and locked them in the out- 
house for the night, swearing that in the morning he would take them 
before his worship. "When morning came," says Uncle Israel, "and 
the keeper found that it was Sir George himself, he began to shiver, but 
Sir George, like a gentleman, gave him a sovereign and told him not to 
say anything about it." 

It is curious to see how in this fatniry the day passes. Long before 
the sun rises, almost as soon as the barnyard cock begins to crow, the 
boys are called up, and in a few minutes are heard the crackling of the 
faggots on the hearth, the barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle. 
When the old gentleman comes down, the pails are full of smoking milk 
and the morning beams are shining across the fields, through the poplars 
and into the breakfast-room. Then come prayers and porridge, with a 
fried egg for grandmother and a mug of cider for Uncle Israel and the 
eldest boy ; the others drink milk. Breakfast over, the yeoman's good 
wife and one of the maids go to the dairy to skim the milk, and by-and- 
by to make up the butter, which two of the boys are churning, and 
Uncle Israel proceeds to the stables to see that the horses are being properly 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 157 

cleaned and fed. On Joe's pointing out to him a cut on the brown mare's 
knee, he gets and applies an ointment, Joe in the meanwhile telling him 
that a fox has stolen three hens and a duck, and that " Fan " has a litter 
of five pups. Then grandmother persuades him to sell one of the cows, 
and to have new thatch put on the barn. About ten o'clock he rides over 
to the "Long Meadow" to learn if the sheep are all right, and after- 
wards to a field beyond, where some men are ploughing. He gives a boy 
two or three touches of his whip for breaking a sapling out of a hedge, 
and calls on Widow Taylor with some fresh lotion for her eye, and a 
chicken for her dinner. On his way home he meets a neighbor, and the 
two agree that the weather is pleasant for the time of year, and that 
market-prices are uncertain. 

At dinner grandmother relates some of her reminiscences, much to 
the amusement of the boys who have heard the stories before and know 
them by heart ; but they respect the old lady, and rather like to hear of 
the good times when every man was an Adam, and every woman an Eve, 
and the world was an Eden. 

The parson sometimes calls in the afternoon, and, after examining 
the children in the catechism and hearing Sammy sing a stave or two, he 
goes to see Daniel's new tumbler-pigeons, Sally's garden of pinks and 
sweet-williams, Joe's colt and the peafowl, rabbits, guinea-pigs and cricket- 
bats belonging to the other boys. Then he sits down to a glass of home- 
brewed with Uncle Israel. 

The lengthening shadows bring the day to an end, and when the 
night-mists rise, all is still at the old farm, and its folk sleep the sleep of 
the peaceful and the wearied. 

Once in a while, and not a long while either, Uncle Israel devotes the 
evening to a family and neighborly merry-making. The squire's game- 
keeper, who is a fair musician, is always there with his fiddle, and he and 
the parish clerk are fun-creators sufficient for any company. A sprinkling 
of spinsters and swains makes the house lively. Prayers are said as usual 
and an evening hymn is sung, the gamekeeper, who is also first bass in 
the village choir, playing the accompaniment on the violin. Nor are the 
devotions shortened because of the impending festivities, for, as Uncle Israel 
says to his guests, as he puts on his spectacles and opens the Bible, " the 
service of God should never be neglected nor hurried over, not even for 
business, much less for pleasure." Then the amusements begin with 
whist for the old folks and dances for the young ones. By-and-by all 
join in " Blind-man's-buff," the favorite game of the evening, and it is 



158 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

delightful to see how nimbly and heartily grandmother takes her part. 
Some songs with ringing choruses are sung, and one or two stories are 
told. About midnight the company disperses and the family retires. 

I venture this illustration of country life, not only for those features of 
it which to some will appear curious, but also for the character of Uncle 
Israel. Such as he are becoming rarer every day. He has dreams, but 
making a fortune or retiring from work are not among them. He will 
die in the house in which he was born, and will look after the farm till the 
last sickness comes upon him. After a life well spent he will be buried 
beside his fathers, and Joe will take up the family work and the 
family honor, and Joe will be, I have no doubt, as true and as good a man 
as Uncle Israel has proved himself to be. 

A story, and we must leave these good people. It reveals something 
about Joe, which now is admitted to be a fact. His favorite pastime, next to 
following the hounds, was boating on the brook, which ran along one edge 
of the parish. Farmer as he was, in his soul were poetry and romance. 
He loved to drift down the stream and watch the sunbeams die and the 
stars come out. The shadows of the moon upon the water, the wavelets 
glistening in the pale light, lifting the lily leaves and breaking against the 
bank, the dark nooks under the overspreading willows and the noiseless 
sweep of the owl along the hedgeside, had an attraction for him, all the 
more strange, because, as a rule, country people are unimpressed by the 
charms of nature, if, indeed, they are not unaware of their existence. But 
when a youth loves such things he is susceptible to other, and perhaps 
more delicate, impressions. 

One beautiful September evening, when the twilight had almost gone, 
Joe was leisurely wending his way down the river, partly rowing and 
partly drifting, now dreaming of that future which ever lies before youth 
as a strange and a hopeful world, and now whistling or singing snatches 
of familiar melodies. The stillness of night rested upon the country. 
Here he passed a belated shepherd who bade him "good e'en," and there 
the cattle lying in a meadow lifted their heads at the splashing of the oars. 
At last he approached a rude, wooden bridge from which once a suicide 
had been committed, and where popular rumor said a spirit was often 
seen. Joe was not free from a belief in ghosts. He knew not why they 
should not appear, and the testimony that they did appear was to him 
convincing. As he turned his head to look at the bridge, which was a 
low one, scarcely three feet above the water, to his terror he saw a white 
figure standing against the rail. He stopped and looked again ; it was 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 159 

motionless and speechless. Undoubtedly it was the spirit of the suicide. 
The moon just rising shone through the willows and revealed its sad face, 
long black hair and ghastly appearance. Joe held his breath and gave 
himself up for lost. Mechanically he stayed his boat against the stream 
and waited for the end to come. What he had done to raise the dead he 
knew not. He had never trodden on a grave, nor in his life, so far as he 
could remember, told an untruth. His father had always said he was a 
good boy, and his grandmother regarded him as the pride of her old age. 
So he began to say his prayers, and made up his mind that if he had to 
die he would rather go to heaven than elsewhere. 

The figure continued peering over the rail at him, but said nothing. 
" Perhaps," thought Joe, "lam not the one it wants ;" and he resolved 
to strike hard with his oars, and send his boat back again up stream. 
Then a clear voice rang out : 

" Why, Joseph, is it you?" 

" Lord save me !" cried Joe. " No ; surely not ! Why, Daisy, how 
you have frightened me. I thought you were a ghost." 

" Not much of a ghost, Joseph, as you well know. Let me get into 
the boat, and go with you further down. ' ' 

And Daisy got into the boat, and Joe felt better— better, he was almost 
inclined to think, than if he had gone to heaven. The two had long 
since known each other, and before they landed Daisy had promised to love 
no one else but Joe, and Joe had sworn b}' the moon, now high above the 
poplars, that he would marry Daisy, even if his father forbade the banns. 

When he got home he told about the ghost, but of an alliance with 
the ghost he said not a word. That, however, is not strange ; it would 
have been so had he spoken. The news came out though in a few days. 
Daisy told her mother, and her mother told her father, and her father 
meeting Uncle Israel told him all about it. That night, as the family 
were eating supper, Uncle Israel said to Joe across the table : " Sly boy ! 
Afraid of a ghost, eh ? And wanted to go to heaven ? Well, she is a 
good, comely damsel, and there's an end of it." Joe blushed and held 
his peace, but he will have Daisy. 

In these villages through which we pass, once in a while we catch 
sight of a policeman ; and, perhaps, the policeman, being now a part of 
English rural life, should be noticed here. I have some sympathy for 
him. He is much misjudged by many classes in the community, but, as 
a rule, when kept within moderate physical dimensions, he is spry, faith- 



160 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

ful, well-dressed and well-behaved. I have never met with one whose 
manner was not courteous and honorable, and who did not perform his 
duties decently and honestly. Like most people they make mistakes, and, 
like all classes, they may find among themselves unworthy men. An air 
of authority, however, springs out of the profession, and is characteristic 
of the police the world over. Indeed, they keep the world going and see 
that the course of true law runs smoothly. They are conservative in their 
tastes and antiquated in their habits. The furniture with which the}" gar- 
nish their stations and cells is simple, while iron bars still stretch across 
their windows. The clergy and the constabulary are generally on good 
terms, because the parson being a sort of moral policeman a sympathy 
springs up in his heart for his brother of the handcuffs and helmet : which, 
however, rarely rises into personal intimacy. On the other hand, a police- 
man often listens to a sermon, and charitably thinks it both scholarly and 
eloquent. The master of the house looks to the policeman for protection, 
and so does the cook, but the one pays him in taxes and the other in cold 
mutton and bitter ale. Much dignity clusters around a policeman. His 
staff is the emblem of justice, and his coat is the terror of the rising gen- 
eration. He shares with the clergy the honor of rarel)- being a criminal, 
though, unlike them, frequently he is seen in the company of the trans- 
gressors of law, and sometimes even beside them in the dock. In fact, his 
reputation is safer than an archbishop's, for he can visit strange places 
without suffering* a reproach ; were a bishop to do the same, his disgrace 
would be lasting. Curious tales a policeman can tell, but he himself is 
more curious than are they. 

One thing, at least, a policeman frequently has in common with oth- 
ers, and that is a kindly heart. This is all the more to be observed, when 
it is remembered that the points of contact between him and other men 
are thought to be rare. 

In a goodly-sized town, whether hereabouts or not it matters little, 
some years ago there lived a young blacksmith, who, after an examination 
into the perquisites and privileges of the office, resolved to give up serving 
at the anvil and dedicate himself, after the fashion of Sir Robert Peel, to 
the enforcement of peace. He did not mind the sobriquets of ' ' Bobby ' ' 
and " Peeler." His name was John Turvey, and a respectable and good- 
looking constable he made when his native grime and awkwardness had 
been reduced. No man learned quicker than he did how to address a 
magistrate or bow to a gentleman ; two things he never thought of when at 
the forge. He bought a cheap edition of Shakespeare, and generally took 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERPA'SHIRE. 161 

it with him when his beat lay across the country. Seated on a stile or 
lying on the sward, he would study and recite Hamlet or Macbeth, for 
knowledge and declamation were then considered necessary for pro- 
motion. He had also a clarionet and a sweetheart ; the former he 
took with him to the woods and the latter to church, though sometimes 
he stayed at home with both. Then with his music he much annoyed 
the neighbors, and with his affection he troubled the tavern-keeper's 
daughter who wanted him, and the baker's young man who had his eye 
on his girl. Duty was his first consideration ; for though some said that 
in case of a brawl he was never on hand, they forgot that had he been 
there, probably no brawl would have taken place. He was good-natured 
and as attentive to the wishes of others as he was to their sins. Once he 
tipped the village carpenter, who was drunk, into a bed of stinging nettles, 
rather than into the lockup, and again he gave a poor woman the money 
to pay her dissolute husband's fine. These proofs of his generosity 
becoming known gave him a good name and secured him much respect in 
that part of the country. 

On one occasion, he was sent to a hamlet some three miles away to arrest 
a man who had been charged with stealing some crab apples out of afield. 
The man was described as a desperate and violent character, and accord- 
ingly Mr. John Turvey went armed with a warrant, a bludgeon and two 
pairs of handcuffs. When he rapped at the door it was opened by the 
delinquent himself, and the policeman at once walked in and proceeded to 
business. The man was as quiet and as meek as a lamb, without any 
signs of ferocity. There was no one else in the house except the man's 
daughter, a bright little thing about five years old. Upon learning that 
her father was to be taken away, she cried and refused to leave him ; 
motherless, he was her only friend. After vain attempts to pacify her and 
to induce her to stay with a neighbor, the kind-hearted John decided to 
take her with his prisoner. On the way John held the man, and led or 
carried the child. 

Before a mile of the journe)- was done there came on a terrific thun- 
der-storm. The rain fell in torrents, and the party took refuge under a 
large oak by the roadside. The prisoner stood between John and the little 
child. He said little, for John had warned him to make no observations 
on any subject, lest he should criminate himself. The storm held on. A 
tree not a hundred yards from them was overturned by the wind. Other 
trees creaked and groaned as though they too must give way. Branches, 
leaves and birds were swept across the fields ; every few seconds the black 



1 62 WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 

clouds were riven with lines of darting fire. The scene grew darker and 
wilder, and the three fugitives trembled with fear. Then, as though in 
their very eyes, came a blinding flash, and the thunder rattled and rolled 
more fiercely than ever. When John looked beside him, he saw a charred 
form on the ground and the child shrinking from it. The prisoner was 
dead. John felt as though his own heart had ceased to beat. He saw 
the black streak down the tree- trunk, and knew that the burning death 
had rushed close by him. He took the moaning child up in his arms, and 
she nestled against his breast. 

The storm passed away. A wagon drove by, and soon the news was 
carried to the town. An inquest and a funeral followed. The jury were 
inclined to censure John for going under the tree ; but they hesitated. 
Everybody said he had had a narrow escape, and ought to be thankful ; 
and everybody remarked that he looked older, and that he neither played 
his clarionet nor visited his sweetheart as of yore. The coroner offered to 
put the little girl in an orphanage. John Turvey, however, took her to 
his mother's home and to his heart, and nestling there, she grew up into 
happy maidenhood, and he was comforted. 

When, after some years of service and several promotions, John left the 
force, he was honored by all, and was rewarded by the authorities. "I 
tried to do my duty," he said, in answer to an address made him by the 
chairman of the quarter sessions. That was all ; the dignity of office, 
curiously enough, had not spoiled him. 

And now we must leave the pleasant haunts of Derbyshire ; and if 
my reader thinks I have lingered too long, say, at Ashbourne, Bakewell 
or Bolsover, it is certain that he has never seen either of those places, and 
therefore has never realized their charm. For me Derbyshire is full of 
interest. There not only do I see the wild ruggedness of Nature and her 
quiet gentleness, set side by side as they scarcely are elsewhere, but I also 
behold survivals of old customs and suggestions of things and of persons 
curious, quaint and worthy of remembrance. Take with me the train at 
Matlock, and as we run past Rowsley, Bakewell and Chapel-en- le- Frith on 
our way to Liverpool, let the scenery of that wonderful Peak country 
make its impression upon the heart and mind. There are indeed stretches 
of bare fields, bleak, rounded hill tops, stone walls and little clumps of 
beech and fir, which suggest rudeness such as you meet with in Norwegian 
or Canadian regions ; bui ever and anon, suddenly as sometimes the sun- 
light bursts through the leaden clouds, appear valleys green and fertile, 



WOODS AND DALES OF DERBYSHIRE. 163 

in which course clean, crystal streams, and in which nestle villages and 
farms, peaceful, picturesque and lovely. These bits of beauty, vignette- 
like, set in the rough framework of rocks and crags, afford both satisfac- 
tion and also a type of the north country character — the stern and cold 
exterior, and the warm, sunny, generous heart; in which heart the friend 
finds fidelity ever fresh and strong, and the stranger discovers a kindliness, 
a humor and an honesty which make life happy and Derbyshire folk 
delightful. You may forget the tors and the cops, the open fields and the 
reaches of moorland, but you will never forget the glens and dingles, the 
woods and the dales, the trout- streams and the castle-ruins. Nor will the 
memory of the hospitality and goodness of the people ever pass from one. 
Such virtues, once seen, have a glory and an immortality beyond praise 
and beyond danger of oblivion. 

The sun was near setting when last I passed out of Derbyshire, and 
already was the red glow rising out of the dull gray gathering along the 
eastern hills. In a few minutes the rosy hue only reached to the meridian, 
and soon the twilight came on and covered the country where some of my 
happiest days had been spent. I sit at the carriage window looking out 
into the gloom, and thinking now of Dorothy Vernon and Penelope 
Boothby, anon of Bess of Hardwiek and Peveril of the Peak, by-and-bye 
of the Green Man, the Rutland Arms, the Swan, and the Dog and Part- 
ridge, till at length the bewilderment of fancies and of memories compels 
me to rouse myself from reverie, and possibly from sleep. A good woman 
in the coach said something about sunflowers and fish : in a moment my 
visions vanished, and there came to me whiffs of the sea-air, and I knew 
that for me there were no more rambles through the Derbyshire land. 



appenirix. 



A I ^he reader will find here for his amusement a few of the ballads popular 
in Derbyshire, gathered, most of them, from Mr. Uewellynn Jewitt's 
' ' Ballads and Songs of Derbyshire. ' ' Some of them have humor, and 
others pathos ; all of them , strength and vigor. The men who wrote 
them may have been eccentric, but they had also powers which not un- 
commonly rose into genius itself. On the whole, the songs are fair exam- 
ples of the ' ' verse ' ' written in English country places, and they suggest 
the brightness and the fun, the jovial merriment, the rugged prejudices 
and the thoughtful life of the village folk. They who are used to dainty 
lines and softened conceits — such as these latter days find out — will 
scarcely approve of them ; but then, readers of that kind would have no 
liking for daisies or dog-roses, and would know nothing of picking sloes 
in the wildwood or crabs in the orchard — and for such people these ballad- 
writers had no care. 



(165) 



1 66 APPENDIX. 

ON GEORGE BUTCHER, 
Angler, Carpenter and Preacher. 

[This worthy, who died in 1875, at a ripe old age, knew ever3' kind of fly upon the water, and all the 
places where the fish lay. The Wye and the Derwent were his haunts ; and to him many a 
fisherman looked for advice and help. He was full of anecdote, cheerful, obliging, insensible 
to fatigue, and well provided with bits of philosophy, the quaintness of which frequently went 
beyond the wisdom. On his tomb in Curbar churchyard, eight miles from Rowsley, he is 
spoken of as one " who for many years of his life, amidst the beautiful works of creation, fol- 
lowed as a fisherman the humble occupation of Christ's disciples." Upon him, before his death, 
these lines were written by a Yorkshire poet, Mr. John Hall.] 

Old Butcher is young ; though he's nigh fourscore 
He can tramp twelve miles across a moor ; 
He can fish all day, and wade up stream, 
And at night as fresh as the morning seem. 

Old Butcher is young ; he can make a fly 
With as steady a hand and as calm an eye 
As though he were still in manhood's prime, 
And never had known the ravage of time. 

He can spin a yarn, or a sermon preach, 
Or on special occasions spout a speech ; 
He can fast or feast like a monk of old, 
Though he likes the latter much best, I'm told. 

He knows each pool of the stream about, 

And every stone that conceals a trout ; 

Some say that he knows the fish as well, 

Both where they were born, and where they dwell. 

To those who have wandered in Baslow Vale, 
Through Chatsworth's meadows and Darley Dale, 
Or skirted the banks of the silvery Wye, 
Where Haddon's grey towers rise steep and high, 

His form and garb will familiar seem 
As the guardian deity of the stream, 
With his oval face and his grizzly locks, 
And his smile like that of a si} 7 old fox. 

Long may he live to pursue his art, 

For few are there left to succeed his part ; 

And when he is gone, let his epitaph be — 

"Here lies George Butcher — rare fisherman he ! " 



APPENDIX. !6 7 



THE PARSON'S TORR. 

[The subject of the following pathetic ballad, written by the Rev. W. R. Bell, was the Rev. Robert 
Lomas, once rector of Monyash, a little village a few miles from Bakewell. During a peril- 
ous night-ride, in the year 1776, he fell over a lofty cliff, and the next day was found dead at the 
foot of the rock.] 

The parson of Monyash, late one eve, 

Sat in his old oak armchair ; 
And a playful flame in the low turf fire 

Oft-times showed him sitting there. 

What was it that made the kind-hearted man 

Sit pensively there alone ? 
Did other men's sorrows make sad his heart, 

Or say — a glimpse of his own ? 

Black dark wars that night and stormy withal, 

It rained as 'twould rain a sea ; 
And round and within the old parsonage-house 

The wind moaned piteously. 

Still sat he deep musing till midnight hour, 

And then in a waking dream — 
He quailed to hear 'mid the tempest a crash, 

And eke a wild piercing scream. 

" Oh, mercy ! " cried he, with faltering breath, 
" What sounds are these which I hear? 
May evil be far from both me and mine ! 
Good Lord, be Thou to us near ! " 

No longer sat he in the old armchair, 

But prayed and lay down in bed ; 
And strove hard to sleep and not hear the storm 

That scowled and iaged o'er his head. 

But sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired — 

And least to a troubled mind ; 
And the parson lay wake long time I ween 

Ere soft repose he could find. 

As the dark hours of night passed slowly on, 

He slept as weary man will ; 
But light was his sleep and broken his rest, 

And sad his foredread of ill. 



1 68 APPENDIX. 

Thus restless he lay, and at early dawn 

He dreamed that he fell amain, 
Down, down an abyss of fathomless depth, 

Loud shrieking for help in vain. 

He woke up at once with a sudden shock, 
And threw out his arms widespread ; 
" Good heavens ! " he gasped ; " what ill omen is this ? 
Where am I ? — with quick or dead ! " 

Right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream — 

That still he was safe and sound ; 
With the last shades of night fear passed away, 

And joy once more again came round. 

The morning was calm, and the storm was hushed, 

Nor wind nor rain swept the sky ; . 
And betimes he arose, for bound was he 

To Bakewell that day to hie. 

Old Hugh brought his horse to the garden gate, 
And saw him all safe astride ; 
" Good-bye," quoth the parson ; quoth Hugh, "Good-bye ! 
I wish you a pleasant ride ! " 

Forth rode he across the lone, trackless moor, 

His thoughts on his errand bent, 
And hoped he right soon to come back again 

The very same way he went. 

The journey to Bakewell he safely made 

A little before midday ; 
But vicar and people were all at church, 

Where they were oft wont to pray. 

"I'll put up my beast," quoth the parson, " here 
At the White Horse hostelry ; 
And go up to church, that when prayers are done 
The vicar I there may see." 

But ere he could reach the old Newark door 

Both priest and people were gone ; 
And the vicar to soothe a dying man 

To Over Haddon sped on. 



APPENDIX. 169 

'Twas three past noon when the vicar came back, 

The parson he asked to dine ; 
And time stole a march on the heedless guest — 

Six struck as he sat at his wine. 

Up rose he from table, and took his leave, 

Quite startled to find it late ; 
He called for his horse at the hostelry, 

And homeward was soon agate. 

As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church, 

The moon just one glance bestowed, 
And the weird-like form of the old stone cross 

In the churchyard dimly showed. 

Still higher and higher he climbed the hill, 

Yet more and more dark it grew ; 
The drizzling rain became sheet as he climbed, 

And the wind more keenly blew. 

Ah ! thick was the mist on the moor that night — 

Poor wight ! he had lost his way ! 
The north-east wind blowing strong on his right, 

To the left had made him stray. 

And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove, 

Bewildered upon the moor ; 
Slow leading his horse that followed behind, 

Himself groping on before. 

Still onward and leeward, at last he came 

To the edge of Harlow Dale ; 
From his cave Latkil * a warning roared, 

But louder then howled the gale. 

On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood, 

And tugged the bridle in vain ; 
But his horse would not move ; then quick started back, 

And snap went each bridle rein ! 

Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff : 

He shrieked and sank in the gloom ; 
Down, down to the bottom he swiftly sped, 

And death was his dreadful doom. 

* The Latkil is a noted trout-stream, and flows out of a cavern opposite the Torr. 



no APPENDIX. 

The dead man lay cold on the bloon-stained rocks — 

The darkness did him enshroud ; 
And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr 

Bewailed him all night full loud. 

Oh, little they thought in the old thatched cot, 

Hard by tire parsonage gate, 
Their master they never again should see, 

Nor ope to him soon or late. 

" This night is no better than last," quoth Hugh, 
" And master has not come back ; 
I hope he is hale, and safe housed with friends, 
And has of good cheer no lack." 

Quoth Betty, " I liked not his morning ride ; 

I fear he's in evil plight ; 
A Friday's venture's no luck, I've heard say — 

God help him if out this night." 

At dawn of next day old Betty went forth 

To milk the cow in the shed, 
And saw him sitting upon a large stone, 

All pale and mute, with bare head ! 

But a moment she turned her eyes away, 

A fall she heard and a groan ; 
She looked again, but no parson was there — 

He'd vanished from off the stone ! 

Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town- 

They made a great hue and cry ; 
And some off to this place and some to that 

To seek the lost man did hie. 

Bad tidings from Bakewell — no parson there — 

No parson could else be found ; 
'Twas noon, yet no tidings — they still searched on, 

And missed they no likely ground. 

At last the searchers went into the dale : 

And there at the foot of Fox Torr 
They found the parson, all cold and dead, 
• 'Mong the rocks all stained with gore. 



APPENDIX. i 7I 

They took up his corse, and six stalwart men 

Slowly bore it along the dale ; 
And they laid the dead in his house that night, 

And many did him bewail. 

When time had passed over — a day or twain, 

They buried him in the grave ; 
And his bones now rest in the lone churchyard 

Till doomsday them thence shall crave. 

Oh, dread was the death of the luckless man, 

Not soon will it be forgot ; 
The dismal story, for ages to come, 

Will often be told, I wot. 

You may not now see in Monyash town 

The dead man's sear tuft of grass ; 
But still it is there in memory stored, 

And thence it never shall pass. 

You may not now find Fox Torr by that name — 

The swain thus knows it no more ; 
But pointing thereat from Latkil grot, 

He'll show you the Parson's Torr. 



A ROLLICKING SONG ON REVOLUTION. 

[This song, commemorating the Revolution of i6S8, was a favorite ditty at Derbyshire village-feasts, in 
the latter years of the last century and the early years of the present. It is emphatic, if not 
poetical.] 

Let every honest heart rejoice 

Within this British station ; 
Give thanks to God with soul and voice, 

For His blessings to this nation. 
Let each true Protestant agree 
To celebrate this jubilee, 
The downfall of the popery 

And glorious Revolution. 

' Tis full one hundred years, I say, 

The fifth day of November, 
King William landed at Torbay — 

Great cause for to remember- 



172 APPENDIX. 

When he had crossed the raging main, 
In spite of Ireland, France and Spain, 
Our ancient rights for to maintain 
By the glorious Revolution. 

When James the Second bore the sway 

He ruled arbitrary, 
And on his standard did display 

The flag of bloody Mary. 
He plainly showed his full intent ; 
Seven bishops to the Tower he sent ; 
But God his purpose did prevent, 

By the glorious Revolution. 

At Whittington, near Chesterfield, 

That was the very place, sir, 
Where the first plot was laid, I'm told 

To pull this tyrant down, sir ; 
By Devonshire and Delamere, 

Friends to our constitution, 
Brave Danby, he was likewise there, 

To form the Revolution. 

When Devonshire to Derby went, 

And when that he came there, sir 
He boldly told them his intent, 

Both scorning dread and fear, sir. 
Derby agreed with heart and voice 

To back his resolution, 
This made his noble soul rejoice, 

That formed the Revolution. 

Then, Devonshire to Nottingham went 

He went to speak his mind, sir ; 
Some people looked at him quite shy, 

And others used him kind, sir. 
They seemed to like his business there, 

But made a long evasion, 
And offered him five hundred men 

When there was no occasion. 

When James he found he could not hold 
His tyranny much longer, 

Neither by promises nor gold, 
But found his foes grew stronger ; 



APPENDIX. 

And when he dare not show his face, 
He England left in full disgrace ; 
King William then enjoyed his place 
In the glorious Revolution. 

No popish, nor no tyrant king, 

Again shall ever rule us ; 
Since now the scales they are quite turned, 

They never more shall fool us. 
Therefore let every loyal soul, 
Whose heart is free without control, 
Pledge him in a flowing bowl, 

That loves the Revolution. 

Now, Devonshire in All Saints' lies ; 

Although his bones are rotten, 
His glorious fame will ever rise, 

And never be forgotten. 
I hope his soul to Heaven is gone, 
While here on earth so brightly shone, 
Not only him, but every one 

Who formed the Revolution. 

Now to conclude and make an end 

Of this most faithful story, 
No honest man it can offend, 

And that is all my glory. 
May God protect our gracious King, 
While rogues and thieves in halters swing ; 
And with a flowing bowl we'll sing 

To the glorious Revolution. 



THE TAILOR'S RAMBLE. 

[The hero of this song, Eyre by name, says Mr. Pendleton in his History of Derbyshire, revealed 
by his valiant feat in 1797 the falsity of the adage that a tailor is only the ninth part of a man.] 

Come all you gallant heroes, of courage stout and bold, 
And I'll tell you of a Taylor that would not be control'd ; 
It happened in Derbyshire, as you may understand, 
Five troops of the cavelry to take this noble man. 



174 APPENDIX. 

So now I do begin to tell you of the fun : 
Full twenty miles that morning this Taylor he had run ; 
And when he came to Ashford, the people they did cry, 
" Make haste, my jovel lad, for your enemies are nigh ! " 

This Taylor was a mighty man — a man of wondrous size, 

And when he came to Entcliff Hill * you would have thought he would 

have reached the skies ; 
And when he did climb those rocks that was so wondrous high, 
The cavelry came all round, and the Taylor they did spy. 

They loaded their Pistols with Powder and Ball, 

All for to take this Taylor that was both stout and tall ; 

He was near four feet high, and a mighty man indeed — 

You'd a laugh'd to have seen the cavelry ride after him full speed. 

In lighting from their horses, their valour for to show, 

Five of them upon the ground this Taylor he did throw ; 

They being sore affreighted, saying, " We would shoot him if we durst ! " 

But their Carbines would not fire, for their balls the}' had put in first. 

Their captain, as commander, he ordered ranks to form, 
All for to take this Taylor the Entcliff rocks to storm : 

" Prime and load ! " then was the word their captain he did cry ; 

" Cheer up, my jovel lads ; let us conquerors be or die ! " 

These valiants being reinforced, they took the Taylor bold, 
And guarded him to Bakewell, the truth I will unfold ; 
At the White Horse Inn in Bakewell, as you may understand, 
It took full fifty of their troops to guard this noble man. 

The battle being over, the Taylor they have won, 
And this is the first prank our cavelry has done ; 
I tell you the truth, they cannot refuse, 
They are ten times worse than the runaway blues. 

Here's a health unto the Taylor, of courage stout and bold, 

And by our noble cavelry he scorns to be control'd ; 

If he'd but his goose, his bodkin, and his shears, 

He would soon have cleared Bakewell of those Derby volunteers. 

•About a mile from Bakewell, on the way to Ashford. 



APPENDIX. 



THE DERBY RAM. 



175 



[This remarkable animal has been associated in verse and song with the history of Derby for more 
than a century. The ballad, according to Mr. Pendleton, was set to music, as a glee, by Dr. 
Calcott, and is still occasionally sung both as a glee and to its old humdrum ballad melody at 
public dinners in the town.] 

As I was going to Derby, sir, 

All on a market-day, 
I met the finest Ram, sir, 
That ever was fed on hay. 

Daddle-i-day, d addle- i- day, 
Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day. 

This Ram was fat behind, sir, 

This Ram was fat before ; 
This Ram was ten yards high, sir — 

Indeed, he was no more. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The wool upon his back, sir, 

Reached up into the sky ; 
The eagles made their nests there, sir, 

For I heard the young ones cry. 
Daddle-i-day, etp. 

The wool upon his belly, sir, 

It dragged upon the ground ; 
It was sold in Darby town, sir, 

For forty thousand pound. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The space between his horns, sir, 

Was as far as a man could reach ; 
And there they built a pulpit 

For the parson there to preach. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The teeth that were in his mouth, sir, 

Were like a regiment of men ; 
And the tongue that hung between them, sir, 

Would have dined them twice and again. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

This Ram jumped over a wall, sir, 

His tail caught on a briar — 
It reached from Darby town, sir, 

All into Leicestershire. 

Daddle-i-day, etc. 



176 APPENDIX. 

And of this tail so long, sir — 
'Twas ten miles and an ell — 

They made a goodly rope, sir, 
To toll the market bell. 

Daddle-i-day, etc. 

This Ram had four legs to walk on, sir ; 

This Ram had four legs to stand, 
And ever)' leg he had, sir, 

Stood on an acre of land. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The butcher that killed this Ram, sir, 
Was drownded in the blood ; 

And the boy that held the pail, sir, 
Was carried away in the flood. 
Daddle i-day, etc. 

All the maids in Darby, sir, 
Came begging for his horns, 

To take them to coopers 

To make them milking gawns.* 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The little boys of Darby, sir, 
They came to beg his eyes 

To kick about the streets, sir, 
For thej' were football size. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The tanner that tanned its hide, sir, 
Would never be poor any more, 

For when he had tanned and retched it, 
It covered all Sinfin Moor. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

The jaws that were in his head, sir, 
They were so fine and thin, 

They were sold to a Methodist parson 
For a pulpit to preach in. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

Indeed, sir, this is true, sir, 
I never was taught to lie, 

And had you been to Darby, sir, 
You'd have seen it as well as I. 
Daddle-i-day, etc. 

* Milk-pails. 



APPENDIX. 177 



THE DRUNKEN BUTCHER OF TIDESWELL. 

[This village is about eight or ten miles from Bakewell, and nearly the same distance from Chapel-en 
le-Frith. Sparrow Pit, mentioned in the ballad, is two miles from the last-named place, on the 
road to Tideswell. The following droll lines were written by Mr. William Bennett. "The 
legend is still so strong in the Peak," says the author, " that numbers of the inhabitants do not 
concur in the sensible interpretation put upon the phantom by the butcher's wife, but pertina- 
ciously believe that the drunken man was beset by an evil spirit, which either ran by his 
horse's side or rolled on the ground before him faster than his horse could gallop, from Peak 
Forest to the sacred enclosure of Tideswell Churchyard, where it disappeared ; and many a 
bold fellow, on a moonlight night, looks anxiously around as he crosses Tideswell Moor, and 
gives his nag an additional touch of the spur as he hears the bell of Tideswell Chun .1 swing- 
ing midnight to the winds, and remembers the tale of ' The Drunken Butcher of Tideswell ' "] 

Oh list to me, ye yeomen all, 

Who live in dale or down : 
My song is of a butcher tall, 

Who lived in Tideswall town. 
In bluff King Harry's merry days, 

He slew both sheep and kine ; 
And drank his fill of nut-brown ale, 

In lack of good red wine. 

Beside the church this butcher lived, 

Close to its grey old walls ; 
And envied not when trade was good 
• The baron in his halls. 
No carking cares disturbed his rest, 

When off to bed he slunk ; 
And oft he snored for ten good hours, 

Because he got so drunk. 

One only sorrow quelled his heart, 

As well it might quell mine — 
The fear of sprites and grisly ghosts 

Which dance in the moonshine ; 
Or wander in the cold churchyard, 

Among the dismal tombs, 
Where hemlock blossoms in the day, 

By night the nightshade blooms. 

It chanced upon a summer's day, 

When heather-bells were blowing, 
Bold Robin crossed o'er Tideswall moor, 

And heard the heath-cock crowing : 



178 APPENDIX. 

Well mounted on a forest nag, 

He freely rode and fast ; 
Nor drew a rein till Sparrow Pit 

And Paislow Moss was past. 

Then slowty down the hill he came, 

To the Chappelle-en-le-frith, 
Where at the Rose of Lancaster 

He -found his friend the smith ; 
The parson and the pardoner, too, 

They took their morning draught ; 
And when they spied a brother near 

They all came out and laughed. 

" Now draw thy rein, thou jolly butcher : 

How far hast thou to ride ? " 
" To Waylee Bridge, to Simon the tanner, 

To sell this good cow-hide. " 
" Thou shalt not go one foot ayont, 

Till thou light and sup with me ; 
And when thou'st emptied my measure of liquor, 

I'll have a measure wi' thee." 

' ' Oh no, oh no, thou drouthy smith ! 
I cannot tarry to-day ; 
The wife she gave me a charge to keep, 
And I durst not say her nay." 
" What likes o' that," said parson then, 
" If thou'st sworn, thou'st ne'er to rue ; 
Thou may'st keep thy pledge, and drink thy stoup, 
As an honest man e'en may do." 

"Oh no, oh no, thou jolly parson ! 
I cannot tarry, I say ; 
I was drunk last night, and if I tarry, 
I'se be drunk again to-day." 
" What likes, what likes ! " cried the pardoner then, 
" Why tellest thou that to me? 
Thou may'st e'en get thee drunk this blessed night, 
And well shrived for both thou shalt be." 

Then down got the butcher from his horse, 

I wot full fain was he ; 
And he drank till the summer sun was set 

In that jolly company ; 



APPENDIX. 

He drank till the summer sun went down, 

And the stars began to shine : 
And his greasy noddle was dazed and addle 

With the nut-brown ale and wine. 

Then up arose those four mad fellows, 

And joining hand in hand, 
They danced around the hostel floor, 

And sung tho' they scarce could stand, 
' We've aye been drunk on yester night, 

And drunk the night before, 
And we were drunk again to night, 

If we never get drunk any more." 

Bold Robin the butcher was horsed and away- 

And a drunken wight was he ; 
For sometimes his blood-red eyes saw double, 

And then he could scantly see. 
The forest trees seemed to featly dance, 

As he rode so swift along, 
And the forest trees to his wildered sense 

Re-sang the jovial song. 

Then up he sped over Paislow Moss, 

And down by the Chamber Knowle ; 
And there he was scared into mortal fear 

B)' the hooting of a barn owl ; 
And on he rode by the forest wall, 

Where the deer browsed silently ; 
And up the slack till on Tideswall Moor 

His horse stood fair and free. 

Just then the moon from behind the rack 

Burst out into open view ; 
And on the sward and purple heath 

Broad light and shadow threw ; 
And there the butcher whose heart beat quick, 

With fear of gramarye, 
Fast by his side, as he did ride 

A foul phantom did espy. 

Up rose the fell of his head, up rose 
The hood which his head did shroud ; 

And all his teeth did chatter and grin, 
And he cried both long and loud ; 



179 



iSo APPENDIX. 

And his horse's flanks with his spur he struck, 
As he never had struck before : 

And away he galloped with might and main, 
Across the barren moor. 

But ever as fast as the butcher rode 

The ghost did grimly glide : 
Now down on the earth before his horse, 

Then fast his rein beside : 
O'er stock and rock and stone and pit, 

O'er hill and dale and down, 
Till Robin the butcher gained his door-stone 

In Tideswall's good old town. 

" Oh, what thee ails, thou drunken butcher? " 

Said his wife as he sank down ; 
" And what thee ails, thou drunken butcher ? " 

Cried one half of the town. 
' ' I have seen a ghost ; it hath raced my horse 

For three good miles and more ; 
And it vanished within the churchyard wall 

As I sank down at the door." 

" Beshrew thy heart for a drunken beast ! " 

Cried his wife, as she held him there ; 
1 ' Beshrew thy heart for a drunken beast, 
And a coward with heart of hare. 
No ghost hath raced thy horse to-night, 

Nor evened his wit with thine : 
The ghost was thy shadow, thou drunken wretch 
I would the ghost were mine ! " 



MAY 19 lyQO 



